


Your Eyes Look Like Coming Home

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Divergent, Day 3: Alternative S7 Ending, GW2017A, Gallavich Week, M/M, Season 7 Alternative Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Season 7 canon divergent. The attempted murder case against Mickey is dropped due to lack of evidence and he is released after fifteen months; a small sentence in comparison to the fifteen years he was expecting. The first thing he wants to do upon his release is find Ian and see if what they had is salvageable, now that he’s a free man and Ian’s meds are balanced. However the Ian Gallagher he comes home to has no memory of Mickey or their relationship. In fact, he has no memory of his past at all, having suffered retrograde amnesia after a head trauma.





	1. What a Difference a Day Makes

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a few months now. Excited to finally post the first chapter. I was going to wait until I'd finished more chapters, but it fit this theme too perfectly.

Ian Gallagher is certain his life has never been this stable. Sure, it's not always perfect (coming from where he comes from, with his background and family, perfection is something he never expects from life), but it's a hell of a lot better than he ever expected. He's got a good paying job that he loves, a supportive group of colleagues, his mental health mostly under control, and he's gained back and is maintaining the fitness he lost during the worst of his illness. He not only has a bank account, but a fuckin' _savings_ account, that he deposits into monthly, and still has free cash left over. Financial security still feels kind of foreign to him, but it's a pretty fuckin' great kind of foreign.

Most importantly, he has purpose. He has sense of self. The thing that kept him so focused and devoted to ROTC, that kept him on a clear path to the army; direction, drive, ambition. He may have lost his opportunity there, but he thinks the EMT gig is actually better for him than the army could ever have been. He's getting to help people rather than hurt. He's getting to _save_ people. It's not always clean, and not all stories get happy endings, but every morning he wakes up and he feels like he's making a difference. There's no better motivator to get him out of bed, to get him taking his meds and going for his morning run. A few years ago his life was in tatters, and out of the charred, ashy remains he's managed to rise like a fuckin' phoenix and build a proper life.

*

“Hey.”

“Hey. What are you doin' here?” Ian smiles at Trevor as he pushes open the passenger door, only hesitating for a moment before he climbs in, dumping his backpack in the back seat.

“I was checking in on one of the foster kids in the area. Makin' sure she's getting on alright at her counselling and everything. Thought I'd swing by and pick you up on my way back. Getting pretty cold out.” Trevor taps the lid of one of the coffee cups in his holders before he pulls out of the hospital pick up zone. “For you.”

“You are a gift,” Ian says, lifting the cup and cradling it to heat up his chilly fingers. Cold is an understatement. “It's fuckin' freezing. Winter really comin' in fast and strong this year.”

“Technically, still fall.”

“Technically, you knew what I meant, asshole.”

Trevor laughs and Ian takes a sip of his coffee, humming his appreciation.

“Gonna be flat out soon. Once the roads get icy, we get a constant flow of accidents. Most of them ain't too bad, just bumps and whiplash, mostly shock. But the really bad ones.” Ian shivers. It has nothing to do with the cold.

“Yeah.” Trevor frowns sympathetically, his eyes flicking to Ian for a second before they're back on the road. “I'm tryin' my best to get as many of my kids help before the snow starts. The statistics of homeless LGBT kids is staggerin'. I hate to think there's so many of them out there; scared, alone. Nowhere to go.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I still think you should come give a talk, sometime. Let them know it gets better.”

“Only, my situation was brought on by mental illness, not by lack of a supportive family.”

“Well, there's also the highest rates of mental illness and suicide-”

“Trevor, I know this is important to you, but I actually spent half an hour talkin' someone off a ledge today, so can we-”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine. He's fine, just-”

“Yeah, I know.”

Trevor is quiet for a while, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat of the radio. Ian is grateful for the reprieve. Is grateful that his friend understands that sometimes, he just can't. It's not that today was a particularly bad day, by any means. There's just some patients that stay with him. Some he needs space to process on his own. He drinks his coffee and watches the grey sky out the window.

“So, you sound like you could maybe do with letting loose this evening, then.”

“Do I?”

“Uhuh. Definitely.”

“What if I'm tired after my long, hard day bein' a hero and all that?”

“First two drinks on me and I bet you're not tired any more.”

“Y'know, I do suddenly feel refreshed.”

Ian's laughter joins Trevor's, and he is happy in that moment, as he increasingly finds himself these days.

*

He's those two free drinks down and already feeling the alcohol buzz through his veins as he moves with Trevor beneath the flashing lights. He still maintains that's a perk of this fuckin' disease; he's a cheap date now. The buzz is nice. Good. Fuckin' freeing after a week of early starts, cold mornings, and long hours. He loves his job, but it's often high stress and that comes with an emotional toll.

He forgets about that all here, with the bass vibrating through the floor and through his bones, with the alcohol and movement making him feel flushed and warm, with Trevor pressed close enough that Ian can feel his breath against his chin. He's not Ian the EMT here. He's just Ian; young and alive and happy. He watches Trevor with a smile as he dances, and Trevor smiles back. It would be easy to duck down and kiss him. It would be easy to tangle his hands in Trevor's hair, and press their lips together, and lick his way into his mouth. It would be so easy, but Ian doesn't.

The thing is, he never really learned how to have male friends outside of his family. He thought he and Roger Spikey were friends, but then he ended up in one of the dirty school cubicles on his knees. Kash was never his friend; he was an employer, and then somehow they were fucking. Ned was a hook up that went on longer than it should have. He'd ended up balls deep in the few boys he actually spoke to outside of ROTC sessions, and spent half his time in Basic fucking. He'd gone after Jason and when he found him already married, the intention had moved to Caleb, and it had been intention, right from the start. Caleb might have made him work for it, but they were never going to be friends.

Mickey was the closest he'd had to friendship, but even that was mixed up in the chaos that was them, because nothing with them had ever been simple. He thinks, maybe, if they didn't fuck so early, they could have been friends, but that first quick, angry fuck in Mickey's room had set the tone for any relationship they would have. They could talk, they could laugh, they could work together, have stupid inside jokes, fight over movies and actors, and have heated hypothetical debates about whether or not certain celebrities would top or bottom, but there would always be sexual tension beneath it; hot, burning, undeniable. There had been friendship with Mickey, but it had been part of the package deal.

So as much as he thinks about kissing Trevor; about how soft those plush little lips might feel against his, and how much he'd like to tangle his fingers through those curls, maybe see what noises Trevor makes when he pulls on them, he holds back. It's not the trans thing; not any more. He sees Trevor for the boy he is now, and while Ian's not sure how their sex would work, it's not such a hurdle to stop him making a move. He's sure Trevor would be quick to educate him, the way he does on so many other topics.

It's just that the burn of Caleb's betrayal is still fresh. It's just that Ian loves Sue and the closeness they've developed over the better part of the last year. Loves Woody and June and the rest of the team, too, even if they're not quite as close as he and Sue. He can trust her, and tell her things, but there's certain things that Trevor just _gets_ , understands in a way she can't, being another young, queer man. Ian likes his passion, and his dumb jokes, and the way he's considerate enough to pick him up in cold weather, with _coffee._ It's just that Ian has a track record of relationships going down in flames, and he doesn't want to lose Trevor.

He doesn't want to miss Trevor. The way he misses Caleb, even after everything, even though the thought of him makes him hot with anger. It doesn't matter, he still misses their closeness and quiet moments and good memories. He misses what they had. The way he misses Mickey. Once the haziness of his meds had worn off he had felt that like a searing hole right through the centre of his stomach; but Mickey was in jail, and they were better off apart, anyway. Ian was certain of that. He'd tried; and in retrospect, it might have been a weak effort, but at the time it had taken all the energy he could muster. He had offered himself, flaws and all, but with no obligation. _Take me as I am or don't take me at all._

Mickey had told him he acted crazy. Mickey had asked him what was wrong with him, even though Mickey was well aware of the diagnosis. Mickey had made it clear that he didn't want Ian; all broken, shattered pieces, all tangled up with his sickness. Mickey was in love with who he used to be, and he kept waiting to see that boy again, but he was dead and Ian couldn't live up to that memory. Mickey was waiting for someone who was never coming back.

It's better this way. He misses Mick. He knows Mickey probably misses him, too, but overall, it's better. Too much damage done now on both sides. Ian still feels the sting, and he's sure the bullshit whirlwind of that year has left Mickey with raw aches as well. He supposes it's only natural with how long hey were together, but that pain will fade with time. Everything does.

“You alright?” Trevor's heat presses all along the front of Ian's body as he pushes up on his toes, aiming his voice into Ian's ear to be heard over the music.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Your face got all serious and distant.”

“Just spaced out. I'm fine.”

Ian flashes Trevor a smile, bringing himself firmly back to the present. This is where he exists. Why focus on the mistakes of his past when he can be happy here?

*

Ian wakes to the sound of a baby crying, and he groans, burrowing under his pillow as if somehow he can hide from the noise. He feels the warmth radiating from a body close to him, and he reaches out blindly until his hand lands on Trevor's ribcage.

“Mornin',” Trevor mumbles sleepily, stifled in a yawn.

“Mmpf,” says Ian. He feels Trevor's ribs vibrate as he laughs.

“Hungover?”

“No.” Ian scowls, dragging his head out from beneath the pillow to blearily glare in Trevor's general direction. His hair sticks up at several different angles. “Just hate the baby siren wake up call.”

“Kid's got some set of lungs.”

“You don't even know. Pretty sure she cried for the entire first month of her life.”

“Same,” Trevor says, and laughs when Ian kicks him.

“Hey, me and the crew were gonna catch a movie tonight if you wanted to come? Y'know, break away from the drinking and dancing. Mad, I know.”

“Nah, I'm on early tomorrow. I'll probably just do a lot of hydrating and try and get as much sleep as I can before I'm due in.” The thought of dealing with all of Trevor's friends while the low pound of a headache starts at the base of his skull is at the very bottom of the list of things Ian would like to do today.

“That's fair.” Trevor sits and the blankets pool around his waist. Ian's eyes automatically trail over his chest and down to his tummy, following skin to the line of the blanket. Trevor catches him looking with a smirk, but Ian just flicks his eyes away, pretends it never happened. “Alright if I grab a shower?”

“Sure, man.”

“You wanna join?” Trevor raises his eyebrows suggestively. Ian throws a pillow at him. “That wasn't a no.”

Ian flips him off and his laughter trails behind him as he sets off to the bathroom.

*

“What are you so smile-y about?”

“I can't just be happy to be at work?”

“This early in the morning? Nah. No one's happy this early in the morning. Weirdo.”

“Awh, good morning to you, too, Sue. I'm so happy to see you. I was gonna give you this other donut and cup of coffee, but clearly-”

“Ey.” Sue snatches the bag from his hand before Ian can even continue his sarcastic spiel, and he grins. “Chocolate sprinkles. You remembered.”

“'Course I did. What do you take me for? You think I'm gonna forget something as important as Sue's Favourite Donut?”

Sue punches him on the arm, and Ian laughs, holding out one of the paper cups for her.

“You doin' alright, Ian?”

“Seriously? You think I'm manic just 'cause-”

“Hey. I never said that. I'm just checkin' in. Calm down.”

“I'm good. Really.”

“Good, then you've got no drama to report, and therefore can't interrupt me while I tell you what Joe did last night.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, _yes_.”

*

Ian kind of misses the way things used to be. Growing up, they often went without. Without heating, without water, sometimes even without food, but what they always did have was each other. Family was always important to him, and he's always felt that, if things got really bad, they'd have his back. It hadn't felt like that during his illness; it had felt like they were teaming up on him, treating him like a child, forcing him into taking meds that made him feel awful and trying to change him just so he'd be easier to deal with. He sees now that they were only trying to do their best by him. He appreciates now how difficult that would have been on them.

He doesn't say to anyone, though, because there never seems to be a chance. The Gallaghers don't feel like much of a unit any more. Fiona spends most of her life at the diner, Lip's busy with work and his drinking relapse, Carl's at military school, and Debbie's always playing mommy with Neil. Ian gets that. Ian's busy now too; but he misses piling into a living room with not enough chairs to watch some shit documentary, misses crowding around a table sharing meals, misses how connected he used to feel to his siblings.

“Mornin'.” Ian moves around Fiona to get to the coffee pot. She gives him a vague hum of acknowledgement, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. “There's my share of the bills for this month.”

“Thanks, Ian.” She takes the money with a quick smile thrown his way, downing the rest of her own coffee. She drops the cup in the sink and breezes out.

“Bye, then,” Ian says to no one, sighing as he sets about making himself breakfast.

Lip comes through when he's sat at the table, stealing one of his slices of toast as he drops down across from him.

“Hey.” Ian kicks him beneath the table, but it's playful. Lip kicks him back. Ian grins.

“Hey yourself. No work?”

“Not for another couple of hours. You look like shit, man.”

“Thanks.”

“Rough night?”

“Something like that.”

“Hey, you doin' okay? You been drinkin' again?”

“Nah. I got it under control, alright?”

“Alright. You in work today?”

“Yeah I gotta leave in like fifteen minutes. Ey, ah, you alright to take Liam to school?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.” Lip steals another slice of toast from his plate. “And thanks.”

Ian kicks at him again but he avoids it by sliding his chair back. Ian flips him off. Lip returns the gesture, laughing as he disappears upstairs to get dressed. The kitchen is silent in his absence.

Sometimes Ian misses the chaos.

*

He's only a month and a half shy of celebrating his year anniversary as an EMT when it happens.

They've had a lot of minor accidents coming through. For the most part no serious injuries, the same influx they've been having since the cold weather first started setting in. It's just more frequent now that the temperatures have plummeted, the roads are frozen, and they've started seeing snow storms that can rage for a few hours at a time. It's tiring, and there's little downtime on shifts now, but Ian likes being kept busy. Makes his day go in quicker.

He's still finishing his lunch when Rita comes breezing through like a hurricane, banging loudly on the locker Woody is napping against, causing him to jump wildly awake. Ian's always impressed by how he can go from out cold to springing to his feet within a few seconds. He shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and washes it down with water, rising to his own feet, because Rita's expression is serious and he knows that must mean something big.

“There's been a pile up coming off the highway. Tipped truck, three cars confirmed involved. With vision as impaired as it is, we might find more by the time we get there. C'mon, let's go. I need the whole team on board for this one. Ian and Sue, you take the other rig. Woody, June, you're with me.”

Everyone moves, no questions asked. When Rita's this blunt, they know what it means; serious injury, possible death. Ian climbs into the driver's seat and buckles up. Sue clicks on the siren. He starts the engine and follows Rita out into the storm. Even with his wipers on full, it's difficult to see more than a few meters in front of him through the flurry.

“Really coming down now,” Sue says.

“Yeah.” Ian thinks of broken glass and the accident victims who might potentially be feeling the cold wet of the snow while they're waiting. He wants to press harder on the gas, but he can't speed through this weather. “You ever had a pile up before?”

“Once, couple of years back.”

“Lot of damage?”

“Oh yeah.” Sue sucks in air through her teeth. “Three fatalities. Couple of them kids. You know how messy a two car collision can get, this is just that amplified.”

Ian nods. Focuses on his driving. Tries not to think too much about what they might find once they arrive.

Rita's already out with the bag by the time they get to the scene of the accident. Another car has joined the wreckage. Sue's sent Woody and June to inspect two of the other cars while she checks in with the truck driver, who has been removed from his vehicle, but is lying on someone's jacket at the side of the road.

Ian and Sue break up, each moving to a separate car to inspect the damage. Ian reaches his car, the front of it all pressed in and dented where it collided with the back of the car in front. He tries the door, but it's locked. He rubs snow from the window. There's a little girl sitting in the passenger's seat. She looks at him with wide, frightened eyes. Ian motions for her to unlock the door. She doesn't, but puts the window down a crack.

“Hey. I'm Ian. I'm an EMT.” She looks at him but doesn't speak, so he expands: “I'm one of the ambulance people.”

That seems to calm her some. She nods.

“What's your name?”

“Iris.”

“Hey Iris. You just had a little crash, didn't you?” She nods, and her red rimmed eyes start to water again. “Who was driving the car?”

“My daddy.”

“And where is he now?”

“He went to help the lady. She was bleeding a lot.”

“Was your daddy hurt, Iris?”

“I don't think so.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Uhm. My neck, a little bit. And I banged my head.” She turns her head enough for him to see an egg sized swelling on her forehead. Then her lip starts wobbling and the tears leak free. “I'm sorry. I took my seat belt off 'cause I dropped my iPod and I couldn't reach it. Daddy told me not to, then he had to stop, and I bumped my head. I'm sorry. I know you're not supposed to take your seat belt off.”

“Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm gonna come around to your side of the car now, okay, Iris? I'm just gonna check that bump on your head. So when I come round, will you open the door for me?”

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. Ian smiles warmly at her.

“Alright. I'm coming round now.”

He can't get around the front of the car as it's still rammed into the back of the car it collided with, so he hauls up his bag and makes his way around the rear of the car, leaning against the wind and the snow. There's large clumps of snow sticking to his skin, his uniform, slowly melting into it. Snow crunches beneath his feet. He almost doesn't hear the squeal of breaks over the sound of the wind. By the time the headlights are clear enough for him to see through the flurry, the car is almost upon him, still going far too quick to have any hope of stopping, even without the tyres sliding along on the slippery surface of the road. Ian's arm goes up, automatic, as if he could even possibly defend himself against that.

Ian only feels the collision briefly. In that fraction of a second, he feels his entire body _ache_ , feels the throbbing explosion through the back of his skull as he's tossed sideways, head clipping painfully against the metal road barrier on his way down, but then he feels nothing, hears nothing, sees nothing.

*

He wakes to the low hum and steady beep of machines. He blinks slowly awake, squinting hazily into a room that is too white for his eyes to bear. He knows he is in a hospital room. He knows his body is humming with muffled pain. He knows he must be on some kind of pain relief to be keeping it muffled; most likely morphine.

What he does not know, is who he is.

 

 


	2. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the movie of the same name.  
> I'll try to update this weekly but sometimes life happens so I make no promises.

The first place Mickey wants to go when he gets out of prison is straight to the Gallagher house.

He ain't fuckin' stupid. He's gotten the hint. It's been over a year since he's seen Ian; he knows what his distance and his silence means, but it has not been enough to extinguish the tiny flames of hope that had kept him warm, kept him going in the long, cold, lonely stretches inside. Circumstances have changed now. Ian's meds are balanced and Mickey's no longer behind bars. If they've got any chance left, now is the fuckin' time for it.

If not, well, least he'll get proper fuckin' closure for it. Least he can drink himself into oblivion now.

“Alright, Mick.” Iggy pulls up in front of the jail, grinning at him from the rolled down window. “Get in, already. It's fuckin' freezin'.”

“I know it's freezin', asshole. I know 'cause I've been standing freezin' my balls off in it for the last fifteen minutes. The fuck's with you bein' late?”

“I'm only ten minutes late. Look at that weather. That's why.”

“What the fuck ever. Just drive, man.”

Iggy does so, at a speed that is probably a little careless, given the weather conditions and how bald his tyres are lookin', but that is a lot slower than he'd usually drive. Mickey sighs and slumps down in his seat, rubbin' his cold hands together.

“You hear anything about Ian?”

“Wow. That wasn't even fifteen seconds. Man, I thought you'd last maybe two minutes. One at the least, but nah, Colin said it'd be the first thing outta your fuckin' mouth.”

“Not technically the first-”

“Yeah but he didn't know I'd be late or we'd all have known it'd be you bitchin'.”

“Fuck you.”

“I ain't heard shit about Gallagher in a while. Got himself a proper job, though. EMT. Y'know, the ambulance people?”

“I know what a fuckin' EMT is.” Mickey huffs in annoyance, turning to glare out at the lying snow. It's not falling at the moment. The sky is grey, but clear. The covering on the ground is above ankle deep.

He's conflicted. Part of him is fiercely fuckin' proud of Ian. That he's got away from the seedy fuckin' clubs. That he's got a proper job, with decent pay, and probably benefits and insurance and all kinds of crap. That'll help with his prescriptions. He must be doing well, to be a fuckin' EMT. Shit. It's great. It's real fuckin' great, but at the same time it makes Mickey's insides ache. He missed that. He's missed so much. What else has changed about Ian? What else has he been absent for? It feels like he's always missing the important things. First with his bouts in juvie, now this whole mess. Why couldn't Sammi just have stayed dead? Bitch.

Mostly, it sounds like Ian's doin' a whole lot fuckin' better without him.

“Brought you some smokes,” Iggy says after a moment, quiet as he hands across the pack. Mickey snatches them. Lights one up. Inhales deep, and exhales on a sigh.

“Thanks,” he eventually says. “Can you drop me over there?”

“Over where?”

“To Ian's.”

“What, now?”

“Nah, next week. 'Course now. Jesus.”

“You sure that's a good idea, Mick?”

“Nope.”

“Ain't you guys kinda-”

“We ain't nothin'. Doesn't matter. You gonna fuckin' drive me or not?”

“Wouldn't you rather have a shower, get some fresh clothes... Maybe a shave?”

He's got a point. Mickey's sure the smell of prison is clinging to him; stale sweat and cheap cigarette smoke, undertones of piss and shit and blood, the kind of smell that lingers regardless of how many cold, shared showers he puts himself through. He's grown out a scruff of a beard and he's in the clothes he was wearing the day they picked him up; the clothes Sammi tried to shoot him in, the clothes Ian broke his heart in.

“Right.”

“Get something to eat, a good night's rest-”

“I fuckin' said okay, Iggy. Shut the fuck up.”

Iggy does so, turning up the volume of the radio instead so that Iron Maiden fills the air between them. Mickey sinks down in his chair and sighs, chain smoking the whole ride home.

*

Mickey rises far too fuckin' early the next day, hoping to catch Ian before he goes off to work. Not that he knows when the fuck he gets to work. Shit, EMTs are round the clock, right? _Hopefully_ to catch Ian before he goes to work. He's freshly washed, freshly shaved, and freshly dressed. He's also freshly nervous. This is why he wanted to go straight there after getting out; running on his post-release buzz. He's had too much time to think, now. He's had too much time to fuckin' doubt.

Mickey lights up as he steps out of his house into the snow. Fuck, it's cold. He tugs his scarf a little tighter and smokes as he makes his way to the Gallagher's. He's walking slower than necessary, tryna think of what he's even gonna fuckin' say. _Hey, so, they let me out. Still fifteen, but months is a bit more bearable than years, right? Anyway... You wanna hang out sometime now I ain't behind bars?_ It sounds stupid even in his head. Sounds fuckin' desperate. _You said you'd wait._ It was a lie and they both knew it. _You still said it, though._

Mickey flicks away the butt of his cigarette in irritation as he turns onto Ian's street. He's just gonna let things play out. See Ian's reaction. Bounce off that.

It feels strange, to be walking through this gate again, crossing this path and stepping up to this porch. Strange to be knocking on the door of the house he practically considered home just over a year ago. Mickey touches the wood with gloved fingertips. His stomach feels like it has dropped out; just fell right between his fuckin' feet and he's stepped on it before he even noticed. He swallows. He thinks about leaving. He knocks.

He doesn't get an answer.

Mickey waits almost a minute, then knocks again. He tries the door and finds it locked. He circles around to the back, but finds that door locked as well. Fuckin' typical. He looks through the living room window, but there's no sign of life. Not that he's expecting any different. Sighing, Mickey trudges back to the street. He could take this as a sign. He could leave things be, leave _Ian_ be and let them both get on with their lives.

He can't. Ian's in his blood. Ian's under his skin. Every beat of his heart is a thrumming reminder; _I-an I-an I-an._ He lets his mind drift at all, and that's the first place it goes. Red hair, pale skin, constellations of freckles, blue-green eyes that can't make their fuckin' mind up, the bump in the back of his head like a fuckin' kidney bean, the stray strands of hair that refuse to stay tamed, and that lopsided smile that makes Mickey feel weak at the knees, like some kind of rom-com bitch. It's always been Ian. Ian who pushed and tugged and wriggled his way into Mickey's life, ducked and dodged and smashed down his defences. Who else could there be?

Mickey just keeps reminding himself that they've fucked up before. No matter how many times they fell apart, they always came back together. He holds that knowledge close and secure to his chest, tells himself it over and over like a fuckin' prayer. Ian loves him. He loves Ian. Ain't that meanta be e-fuckin-nough? Ain't that what they write all the shit songs and make all the crappy movies about?

He lights another cigarette and heads for the Alibi.

*

Mickey steps into the bar, stomping snow off of his boots. He is once again struck by how little things change in the south side. He's been gone over a year, but stepping back into the Alibi, it could be days. He de-tangles his scarf, warmed from the journey, as he makes his way across the floor. He ignores the glances and whispers of the day drinkers, placing his hands against the bar and leaning into it.

“Ey.”

Kev glances up from where he's wiping down behind the bar.

“Mickey?”

“One and only.”

“I thought you were in jail.”

“They let me out. Case fell through. Ain't got shit against me. No evidence, no witnesses. Just Sammi's word against mine, and the bitch is fuckin' crazy.”

“That's great, man. Lemme get you a drink.”

“Nah, I'm not stayin'. Just wonderin' if you know where Ian is. Ain't anyone home.”

Kev falls quiet, and his hand stills. Alarm bells start ringing in Mickey's head. His eyebrows raise, waiting for an answer. Kev clears his throat. He sets down his cloth. Mickey's getting ready to tell him _just spit it the fuck out, already_ when he speaks.

“Ah, you ain't heard?”

“I ain't heard shit. I only got out yesterday.”

“Ian's in hospital, Mickey.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he was in a pretty bad accident. Car slammed into him.”

Mickey's hands tighten on the edge of the bar until his knuckles are white with the strain. He swallows thickly, tries to keep the concern from showing on his face, tries to calm the rising panic. In the hospital. Not dead. In the hospital. He takes a shaky breath.

“Is he okay?” Mickey doesn't mean for the words to come out as soft as they do. Doesn't mean for the fuckin' waver of his voice.

“He's awake. Recovering.”

“Which hospital?”

“Look, you should know-”

“Which. Hospital?”

Kev tells him, and Mickey's out the door before he can hear whatever else Kev's trying to tell him. The nerves are gone now, replaced with a frantic, driven need. He needs to see Ian. He needs to make sure he's alright. They can fuckin' deal with their shit later. He just needs to make sure he's not badly hurt, that he's gonna be okay. Fuck. Mickey can live without Ian as his boyfriend. He's not sure how he's meant to live in a world where Ian don't exist at all.

*

It's after lunch by the time he finally makes it to the fuckin' hospital. Everything slower because of the weather. His top layers are soaked through with melting snow. His toes are numb from the cold. He's stress smoked the rest of the packet of cigarettes Iggy gave him. He only stops at the desk to find out where Ian is, not giving himself time to hesitate, not giving himself time to back out.

Just keep moving. Don't think. If he can only just see him; just see he's alive and breathing and okay. Everything else can wait. Everything else is background noise. All their bullshit; their arguments and breakup and everything that had been the centre of Mickey's thoughts for fifteen months now falls away. It doesn't matter. How the fuck can it matter if the cause of it all isn't here any more? Isn't breathing or smiling or laughing, _fuck_ , he misses the sound of Ian's laughter.

“Mickey?”

Mickey freezes at the sound, turning his head. It's Debbie, holding a baby in one arm and a cup of cheap hospital coffee in her free hand. Mickey doesn't even question the baby.

“Where's Ian?”

“Why aren't you in prison?”

“They let me out,” Mickey says, swift, impatient. Clearly they fuckin' let him out or he wouldn't be wandering around in the middle of the day in plain sight. The fuck is everyone so hung up on that? Jesus. “Where's Ian? Kev said he's hurt.”

“Uh, yeah. He was in a pretty bad accident. So, they just let you go?”

“No evidence. Case fell through. Where is he?”

“Last door on the right. But, Mickey- Wait.”

Mickey doesn't wait. Nothing in this world could convince Mickey to wait. His feet don't even seem to wait for direction from his brain, they just automatically turn, start carrying him down the corridor. Like a fuckin' homing pigeon, seeking Ian out, because really, where else has he ever felt at home? Debbie's voice follows him, but he's not listening to her words. He almost hesitates at the door, afraid of what he's going to see, but he pushes himself forward, turning the corner and stepping into the little hospital room. His chest constricts painfully.

Ian is sitting up in his bed. His hair is a shock of colour in a mass of white; white sheets, white pillow, even his skin is more pale than Mickey has seen it. Sickly pale. His arms look translucent, dark lines of veins visible where his IV drips are stuck with butterfly tape. He's surrounded by machines, humming and bleeping. He's got more wires going into him than Mickey can count. His face is scraped raw down one side, covered in scratches and cuts. Bruising is blossoming around his eye; purple and blue and some fading to yellow-green as it heals.

Mickey feels ill at the sight of him. Feels his legs weak beneath him. He inhales sharply, and Ian looks up from his jello pot at the sound. His expression remains curiously blank. Not the anger or irritation Mickey expected. Not the smile he had hoped for. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just blank, neutral, empty.

“Ian.” The word comes out shaky, and Mickey steps closer, leans against the back of the chair at Ian's bedside because he fuckin' needs something to hold him up. Ian watches him with that same blank expression. He blinks slowly.

“Who are you?”

Mickey feels like he's been slapped.

“Mickey!” Debbie bursts through the door after him.

“You know who I am,” Mickey says softly. Ian just shakes his head. Mickey looks at Debbie. “What's up with him? Why's he sayin' he don't know who I am?”

“Because he doesn't.”

“Course he does.”

“No, Mickey, that's what I was _trying_ to tell you. He doesn't. He doesn't know who you are. He didn't know who I was when he woke up; or Fiona, or Lip, or Liam. He didn't even know who _he_ was.”

“Wha-?” Mickey looks back at Ian, who is watching him with those familiar eyes, but still no trace of recognition. He staggers around the chair and sits down, resting his head in his hands as he tries to process what Debbie's telling him.

“He got hit pretty hard in the head. Retrograde amnesia. The doctors say he can get his memory back, but he might not remember everything. Especially things closer to the accident. So far he hasn't really remembered anything.”

Mickey looks up through his fingers at Ian, who is now looking a touch irritated he's being discussed as if he's not present. Mickey feels the clench in his chest again. He's seen that expression before, usually before Ian makes some kind of smart ass comment.

“I still remember how to hear,” Ian says. There it is. The sound of his voice causes a fresh wave of pain, and Mickey has to press his palms against his eyes, fight back the rising burn of tears. “So, who _are_ you?”

“This is Mickey,” Debbie explains, when Mickey is unable to form words straight away.

“Another brother?”

“Ah, no, man. We, uh-” Mickey sniffs. Lifts his eyes to Ian's. “We used to- We were a couple.”

“You're my ex?”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Mickey's gonna stay with you for a while,” Debbie says.

“What?” Mickey looks up at her, vaguely alarmed at being so suddenly left alone with Ian. Debbie looks back at him purposefully.

“Franny and I have a lot to do. Have to get some groceries, which is gonna take even longer than normal in this weather. Then we gotta go prepare dinner. Fiona will be round once she gets off her shift. You did come to visit Ian.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” Ian says, sitting his finished jello cup down. He looks at them through narrowed eyes, head tilted slightly towards them, his chin pushed out in a silent, stubborn jut. Another look Mickey knows well. Affection throbs suddenly in his chest, and he can't help but smile.

“I know you don't.”

“Say bye to uncle Ian, Franny.” Debbie makes the baby wave at Ian, who smiles and gives a little wave back. Once she has her tucked into her stroller, she hands Mickey the coffee she was holding when he first saw her. “You can have this. See you later, Ian.”

“Bye.”

“Since when does Debbie have a baby?” Mickey says, once he's given her enough time to be too far to hear him. Ian shrugs in response.

“I don't know. Since I don't really know her. Since I can't remember anything.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Ian sniffs, reclining back against his pillows. “You don't have to stay until Fiona comes. I'll survive on my own. I still know stuff, just not about me.”

“That's okay. I wanna be here.” Mickey leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, as he turns the coffee cup in his hands. He's itching for a smoke, but knows he wouldn't leave Ian's side even if he had any left. “It's good to see you again.”

“Even though I look like shit?” Ian raises a brow. Mickey grins.

“Even though you look like shit,” he agrees. Ian seems to relax a touch.

“Sorry I don't remember you. I know it's kinda annoying, but trust me, it ain't half as annoying as not remembering anything.”

“Shit, man, yeah. Don't even apologise. Ain't your fuckin' fault, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Guess you don't remember what happened?”

“Nah. They say even if I get my memory back I might not remember the actual accident, but a lady that, uh, that said she works with me told me what happened. Car slid into me, knocked me into the guardrail. Hit my head on the way down.”

“You say that like it ain't a big deal.”

Ian shrugs. He looks tired. He looks tired, and so, so lost. Mickey just wants to hold him. It's part selfish want, part sheer desire to comfort Ian in any way that he can.

“Why're you lookin' at me like that?”

“I ain't lookin' at you like anything,” Mickey says. He clears his throat. Takes a sip of coffee. “That the only damage?”

“Some fractured ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Mostly cuts and bruises.”

“Right.”

“So why'd we split up?”

Mickey's entirely unprepared for the question, and he doesn't have an answer for it. He doesn't know why. Why did they split up? They were the only thing that made sense to him. He can't speak for Ian. Did they stop making sense to Ian? Was there some shift that Mickey missed, some change or broken connection? He's asked himself this plenty of times. He's spent sleepless nights on scratchy sheets in a cold cell pondering over it. It's been the great mystery of his past fifteen months. He still doesn't have an answer.

“I don't know, man,” he finally admits, his voice soft in the space between them.

“How can you not know?”

“You were sick. I was tryna help, you thought I was tryna... Fix you or something.”

“I ended it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Ian is quiet for a long moment. “I dumped you for trying to help me?”

Mickey shrugs. Ian's brow furrows in confusion, and he looks at his fingers for a while, plucking at the sheet over his lap. Mickey can't look at him for a long moment, but when he does glance up, Ian has fallen asleep, the morphine carrying him off mid conversation. _That's good fuckin' shit,_ Mickey thinks. _I could do with a hit of that right now._

He finishes his coffee and drops the empty cup in the bin in the corner. When he comes back, he moves his chair closer to Ian's bed before sitting again. He watches him sleep. Watches the rise and fall of his chest, the occasional fluttering of his eyelashes, the odd twitch of his fingers. He watches every sign that Ian is still alive, still here. Different, but not dead.

“I wish I knew,” he admits quietly. “I wish I knew so I could fuckin' do whatever it takes to fix it.”

Ian continues to breathe, soft and steady. Mickey sighs. He dares to stroke his fingers feather light along the back of Ian's hand, savouring the brief touch. It's not any of the reunions he envisioned, but as far as fresh starts go, it's a cleaner slate than he could have anticipated.

*

Mickey's found an abandoned gossip mag tucked into the cupboard beneath Ian's bedside table, and he passes the better part of an hour getting himself up to date with the latest celeb news. Ian wakes briefly at one point, mumbles his name (Mickey's heart jumps to his throat at the sound and he automatically smiles), then falls asleep again before he manages to get out whatever he was seeking Mickey's attention for. Mickey looks at him every so often, reassurance he's still here and breathing.

He steals the pen from the patient board at the bottom of Ian's bed so he can do the crossword. He fills in all the clues he knows, which ain't as fuckin' many as he'd like. He props his feet against the frame of Ian's bed and rests the magazine against his knees as he skims through the clues again, reading the odd one out to Ian, even though he's still asleep.

“Insult. Four letters. Starts with S. Any ideas?”

“Try 'slur'.”

Mickey starts, kicking Ian's bed in the process and causing him to jerk awake with a pained groan. Mickey's head has snapped around to find the source of the voice; a fluffy haired, scruff faced boy in the door, but it quickly turns back to Ian at the sound. He's torn between wanting to question the intruder and check on Ian. Concern wins out.

“Shit, sorry. You alright?”

Ian nods, then his eyes move past Mickey and he manages a smile. Jealousy coils in Mickey's stomach, hot and uncomfortable. He scowls back at the newbie.

“The fuck are you?”

“Hey,” Ian says at the same time.

“I'm Trevor,” he says, laughing as he comes further into the room. He shakes a paper bag at Ian. “I brought donuts, since you said the food in here sucked.”

“It _does_ suck. I'm surviving on jello alone.”

“Ah, so glad I'm helping balance your dessert diet with more dessert.” Trevor looks at Mickey with a smile and a nod. “Hey, nice to meet you..?”

“This is Mickey,” Ian says, and Mickey's beginning to wonder if he's ever gonna get to introduce himself again, or if various Gallaghers are gonna do it for him for the rest of fuckin' his life. “He's my ex.”

“Right.” Trevor's posture goes a touch stiff, and he looks between Ian and Mickey. “Of course. Aren't you supposed to be in jail?”

Oh for fuck sake.

“I got out,” Mickey practically growls. Maybe he should make a sign. Wear it round his neck for the next week. _RELEASED DUE TO LACK OF EVIDENCE. FUCK OFF._

“You were in prison?” Ian looks at Mickey with a mixture of alarm and interest. “What for?”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Didn't you try to kill Ian's sister?” Trevor props himself at the foot of Ian's bed, arms folded.

“Seriously?”

“Alright, firstly, she was only a half sister. Secondly, I didn't try to kill her, which is why they let me out. Obviously.” Mickey scowls at Ian. “You tell everyone our business?”

“I dunno.” Ian shrugs, takes a bite from a chocolate donut. “I can't remember.”

 _Real fuckin' convenient_ , Mickey thinks, but says nothing. He knows it's not Ian's fault. Ian didn't ask for this. Ian doesn't deserve this. Besides, it's not Ian he's mad at. Not really. It's Trevor; this fuckin' smug stranger sitting so casually at the foot of Ian's bed, bringing him donuts, informing Ian's memory of Mickey as if he has any right. Maybe he knows why they ended, but he can't know what they fuckin' were. Mickey knows that. Mickey should be the one to build back up Ian's memories of him. Not this little shithead who doesn't have a clue about him.

He looks at Trevor with open contempt, and Trevor just looks back at him, holding his ground. Then he turns to Ian and gives his lower leg a little squeeze through the blanket.

“How're you doing today?”

“Yeah, okay. They say it won't be long until I'm able to go home.”

“That's good.”

“I guess. Feel like I'm moving in with strangers.”

“They're your family.”

“I know.” Ian sighs, slumping back. “But it doesn't feel like it.”

Mickey sits in angry silence. He's annoyed with how easily conversation seems to flow between Trevor and Ian, when he doesn't know what to say, can't find words, and anything he does want to communicate needs the context of Ian's memory. So he's just lost; suspended in a middle space where he doesn't know what to do, what to say, how to act. Trevor doesn't seem to have that issue. He breezes in with ease and chats easily with Ian. Mickey's blind with jealousy.

He stands, suddenly. The chair loudly scrapes the floor.

“Gotta piss,” he says, and storms out into the hall. He wants a smoke, but he's got none. He needs to get away from the room for a while, though. Doesn't want Ian's first new memory of him to be him punching Trevor in his fuckin' smug face. So he sets off down the long corridor. He finds himself in the gift store, even though they're definitely not selling cigarettes. Not that he's got much cash to spare. Already spent a good deal of it just getting here.

He looks at the 'Get Well Soon' cards. Considers getting Ian one, but then dismisses the idea. He's got plenty of fuckin' cards crowding his room already. Mickey's would be lost among them. 'Get Well Soon' doesn't feel very fitting, either. Maybe for the scratches and bruises. Feels like a fuckin' understatement with the memory issues.

Mickey leaves the store and does a lap of the floor. He actually does go to the bathroom, splashing water on his face and rubbing his eyes, still dry and scratchy from his earlier tears. He pats himself dry and looks at his reflection for a long moment. He wonders what Ian sees when he looks at him. Is it like passing a stranger on the street? Is there any kind of stirring of familiarity at all? He didn't smile at Mickey's appearance the way he smiled at Trevor. Mickey sighs, irritated, and slams his fist against the sink.

“Fuck.”

His hand stings. He doesn't feel any better.

He returns to Ian's room to find Trevor in his seat, talking animatedly about some kid who was gonna get sent back to juvie, but he's managed to talk them round, and she's gonna be staying with him until he can get her a bed. Fuckin' bleeding heart. Ian smiles and nods as he listens, and Mickey realises the appeal. 'Cause he doesn't have to know who Trevor's talking about to follow his story. He feels another irritated flash of jealousy.

“Oh, hey Mickey. You were gone a long time.” Ian saying his name softens him a touch.

“Couldn't find the bathrooms.”

“Well, I gotta run. I just wanted to call in while I was passing.” Trevor rises, smiling at Ian. His eyes flick briefly to Mickey before he lifts his coat. “I'll call back again when I can.”

“Thanks for the donuts.”

“No problem. Mickey.” Trevor gives him a curt nod, and then he's gone.

“Who's that, then?” He knows lingering on the subject of Trevor will just further irritate him, but he can't help it. Question's out of his mouth before he can fuckin' stop it. The itch of jealousy constant. He keeps seeing Ian smile at him.

“That's Trevor.”

“Seems pretty friendly.”

“Yeah, he's real nice.”

Mickey sniffs. Folds his arms defensively across his chest. A flicker of amusement crosses Ian's face.

“Are you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are. Why?”

“I don't know.” Mickey shrugs, aggressive. He glares at the wall, then Ian, then the floor.

“Sit down.”

“What?”

“Sit. Sorry I fell asleep earlier. It's the drugs.”

“Yeah.” Mickey moves slowly, watching Ian as he takes his previous seat. Ian rewards him with a smile.

“You didn't want us to be over.”

Mickey shifts, uncomfortable with the fresh bluntness this version of Ian brings. Not that Ian has ever been particularly subtle, but at least he had tact. Pebbles at a window. Now he's a fuckin' brick crashing through the glass.

“No,” Mickey says after several beats of silence. “'Course I didn't want us to be fuckin' over. I love- I loved you.”

Ian chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, before nodding.

“You're jealous 'cause you think I like Trevor?”

“ _No._ I ain't fuckin' jealous.” Mickey exhales sharply through his nose. Ian looks at him knowingly, and he cracks beneath that gaze. “Fuck. Fine. It's just- I dunno what to say to you now. I've got all this context; fuckin' years of us, man. It's weird that you don't remember it. I dunno what to talk about that isn't connected to it.”

“Then tell me about us.”

“What?”

“That's what people have been doin'. Telling me stories. They don't really set off my memories, but I like havin' a picture of who I was. Like, it's weird, learning about myself, but I like it. So. Tell me. About us.”

So Mickey does. The abridged version.

He tells Ian how they were together on and off since they were teenagers. He doesn't mention Kash, or Ian's geriatric side notes. He admits to being afraid of coming out, mostly because of his father. He doesn't mention Svetlana, or the baby, or Ian running off to the army, just that they were apart for a while, and realising in his absence that he wanted him more than anything. He wanted him more than he was afraid. How they reconnected; awkward at first, unsure, but they came together stronger than ever. Proper this time. A couple; acknowledged by both sides. How Ian got distant when he got sick, how they ended mere minutes before Mickey was taken into custody, and so they never got to discuss it. That that's why he doesn't have a reason.

Ian listens, nods, sometimes asks questions. When Mickey finishes, he's looking drowsy again, but watching him with soft eyes and a frown.

“Is that why you came? You wanted to find out why?”

“Nah. I came 'cause I heard you were hurt, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. You're... You're still my best friend, alright. All shit aside.”

“Sounds like we were a wild ride.” Ian smiles, eyes falling shut again.

“Yeah, but the fuckin' best,” Mickey says softly, once Ian's breathing has evened out.

Ian sleeps until Fiona arrives, finding Mickey back at the cursed crossword. He says goodbye then, leaving Ian with her and taking his own mess of feelings home with him.

 


	3. I is for Imposter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics is Ian  
> Bold is Mickey

Ian stands on the snowy side walk. The wind blows stray strands of his hair across his forehead. These is snow clinging to it. He is cold and he is still aching, but mostly, he feels lost. He stands by the gate of the house that is apparently his home, has apparently always been his home, and he feels nothing. He remembers nothing.

“Thanks for the lift, Kev,” Fiona says, squeezing Kev's arm.

“Anytime. Let us know if there's any changes, yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Fiona turns to Ian now, smiling warmly at him. “Let's get you inside before you catch your death, yeah?”

Ian nods absently, and follows her across the path and into the house. He lingers at the edge of the living room. He feels like an imposter. He doesn't know this house, and while he's gotten to know the people here, the people that tell him they're his family, over the duration of his stay in the hospital, they still feel like strangers. Mere acquaintances at best.

“Ian's home!” Liam runs across the floor and hugs Ian's legs, looking up at him with a smile. Ian still doubts that this is his actual brother. He hasn't wanted to ask anyone why he's black, but it's a silent question he's been pondering over. Still, he's a sweet kid, and he doesn't talk to Ian in a way that expects him to have context.

“Yeah, buddy. You'll be able to show me _all_ your drawings now and tell me what you're getting up to in school, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Liam reaches up to put his smaller hand into Ian's. Despite the height difference, Ian can't help but feel like he's actually the child; can't help but feel small, lost, unsure.

“Why don't you go show Ian his bedroom, huh, bean? I'll make you something to eat.” Fiona smiles at him encouragingly. Ian keeps his hold on Liam's hand as he guides him towards the stairs. He keeps looking at everything expecting it to spark something in his brain; to fire off a connection, for everything to suddenly fall into place. He keeps looking and wanting it to be familiar, but everything is new. Could he really have lived here his whole life, in this place he doesn't recognise?

“This your room,” Liam tells him, pointing into one of the open doors. Ian starts to step in, but Liam continues to tug him. “This my room!”

Liam runs across to his bed and collects a book. He comes back and looks up at Ian with wide eyes, holding the book out to him.

“You read best. Debbie doesn't do voices.”

Ian can't help but smile. He bends to scoop Liam up, but the protesting ache of his ribs stops him. Right. Physical restrictions. He hobbles across to Liam's bed and lowers himself to the edge of it, pushing back so he's propped against the wall. Liam scrambles up beside him. Ian opens the book. It's a story about dinosaurs. Only a few sentences per page, mostly brightly coloured illustrations. It looks like it's aimed for a younger reader than Liam, but it also looks old and faded, so Ian assumes it must be an old favourite.

It takes him less than ten minutes to read. He puts on voices for the speaking dinosaurs, throwing in roars for good measure. Liam listens attentively, giggling sometimes, and only corrects Ian once, to tell him that actually the Stegosaurus is a girl, but that's okay, 'cause he knows Ian got a head bump and ain't remembering too good.

“Sometimes I no remember good, either.”

“Hey, but you're remembering lots now that you're going to your fancy school, huh?”

Liam nods excitedly. When Fiona brings peanut butter and jelly sandwiches up for Ian, she finds him listening to Liam list off all the things he remembers from school in the past week. Ian glances up when he hears her at the door. She smiles. He smiles back. He still doesn't feel at ease here, but he feels less like an imposter now.

*

The house brims with the sound of life, stirring Ian awake. He groans softly, still tired. Losing the morphine has left him far too aware of his aches, every shift a sharp bolt of pain. He'd spent most of the night awake, trying not to toss and turn lest he further aggravate them. He sighs. He doesn't want to get out of bed, but he knows he's spent enough time lying down.

Slowly, he heaves himself up. He pulls on a warm grey fleece and a loose pair of sweats from the wardrobe, soft and comfortable clothes. The fleece is kind of snug on him, but it's old and worn, and Ian finds it comforting. He runs his fingers over the soft cuffs that end just above the bones of his wrists. He takes a deep breath. He steps out of his room.

It takes him two attempts to find the bathroom, opening the door to the bedroom at the bottom of the hall on his first attempt. He has a piss and uses the toothbrush he's been told is his. He tries to smooth down a few wild patches of his hair, but they spring up again instantly, so Ian leaves them be. His reflection stares back at him; pale and tired looking, with dark smudges beneath the eyes and a splatter of ugly, yellowing bruising. He knows that person is him, but there is a bizarre disconnect. He would not recognise that as his face if he did not know the purpose of a mirror.

He is slow coming down the stairs, unsure entering the buzz of life in the kitchen. Debbie's baby is crying. Debbie's baby always seems to be crying. Liam is at the end of the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Fiona is buzzing around making his lunch. Lip is clinging to a cup of coffee, his eyes sunken, his hair a mess. All eyes move to Ian as he takes the final two stairs.

“Mornin'.” Fiona smiles brightly at him. “How'd you sleep?”

“Okay,” he lies. She scoops some eggs onto a plate with toast, and hands it to him. Ian accepts it with quiet thanks.

“Take these.” She hands him five tablets. Ian assumes they're pain medication and gratefully swallows them without question. He sits beside Liam.

“Ian take me school?”

“Nah, buddy,” Lip says. “Ian's, uh, still hurt.”

“I'll take you to school once I'm better,” Ian promises, despite having no idea where Liam's school is. Liam beams at him.

“Okay.”

“I've got to go check on Patsy's today, and I've a few things to do at the laundromat. Debs, can you stay with Ian?”

“For a while, but I've got to get back to Neil's. It's bath day.”

“I can stay until you get back,” Lip says.

“Great. Can you get Liam after school as well?”

“Sure.”

“I can stay on my own,” Ian says, frowning. “I'm not a kid. I'm not gonna burn the place down or anything.”

“Yeah, I know.” Fiona smiles at him. It's meant to be reassuring, but all Ian can see is sympathy he doesn't want. “But you're still hurt. You should be resting.”

Ian doesn't argue any further. He eats his eggs and Liam tells him about how it's too cold outside for the chickens so they've had to move them into the hall until the snow stops. Debbie has taken Franny upstairs to change, and with her crying gone, he can catch snippets of Lip and Fiona's hushed conversation in the living room.

“-sure he takes his meds.”

“-anyone told him?”

“-back on his feet.”

“-if he asks?”

“-make sure he takes them.”

He wonders what the big deal is. Of course he's gonna take his meds. He wishes he could take more. He wishes he still had the hazy comfort of morphine in his bloodstream to take the edge off, to blanket everything.

“Bye Ian!”

“Bye little man.” Ian stands at the front door, arms folded across his ribs as a useless barrier against the cold. He lifts one hand to wave goodbye to Liam, before closing the door against the cold. As he's coming back through the living room, he sees Lip cracking open a beer.

“Starting early?”

“Hair of the dog.” Lip grins at him, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Ian bristles with discomfort. They might be brothers, but without nineteen years of memories to balance out his view of Lip, he thinks he's a bit of an asshole. A drunken asshole, by the looks of it.

“Right.”

Ian tries to help with the dishes, but Lip brushes him off. At a loss for anything to do, he comes back to the living room and examines the family photos. He picks himself out by process of elimination rather than recognition, and smiles at the difference. His younger self sporting fluffy bangs and a face full of freckles. He's obviously done a lot of growing up since then.

If only he could remember it.

*

Mickey had visited him twice more once he'd been moved from his private room to the ward. Brought concern and best wishes from Mandy, his sister and Ian's supposed best friend. Ian liked listening to their history, even if he was disappointed it never triggered any memory in his own head. He enjoyed the low rumble of Mickey's voice, was amused by his swear coloured language and his habit of talking with his hands, found his eyes following the tattooed knuckles. He gets the feeling Mickey's only telling him good things, but he doesn't blame him. He supposes, in that situation, he wouldn't want to give anyone bad memories either.

Therefore it's no surprise to him when Mickey shows up in the afternoon, but he is grateful for the distraction. He's not sure how much longer he could have continued staring blankly at the television.

“Hey.” Mickey smiles at him, peeling off his scarf. “Out of the hospital gown? Shame, it brought out your eyes.”

Ian huffs a tired laugh and tugs at the sleeves of his fleece. There's a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, though. He lets it grow, returns Mickey's smile.

“Yeah, well, bit chilly for that.”

Mickey pauses when he gets a proper look at Ian, his eyes drawn to his fleece. Ian follows his gaze, self conscious he's spilled something on it, but it's clean. He looks back at Mickey with a furrowed brow.

“What?”

“Nothin'.”

“Why were you lookin' at me like that?”

“I- It doesn't matter.”

Ian tilts his head up and looks at Mickey sullenly, the determined line of his chin jutting forward. Mickey's expression softens a fraction. He laughs as he shrugs his coat off.

“Just, I didn't know you had that.”

“Had what?”

“My fleece.”

“Oh. Shit. This is yours? I found it in my wardrobe, and it just... Seemed warm.”

“It's cool. You can keep it.”

“You sure?”

“It's just a fuckin' fleece, man. No big deal.”

“Right. Thanks.” Ian sinks back against the couch, picking fluff from his sleeve. He finds Mickey's presence comforting, but is constantly at a loss for what to say to him. He feels disadvantaged. He doesn't know anything about Mickey, but the getting to know you shit is redundant since Mickey already knows him.

“How you feelin'?”

“Fine.”

“How are you really feelin'?” Mickey looks at him levelly. Ian stares back, blinks slowly, then sighs.

“Kinda sore, and the meds are making me groggy. I, uh, I also feel kinda like an imposter here.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Like I'm just... I'm crashing with strangers.”

“They're your family, Ian.”

“They don't feel like it, though. And why is Liam black? Do you know? I didn't want to ask.”

“I'm pretty sure no one knows why Liam's black, but he is your brother, if that's what you mean.”

“Okay.”

“And you ain't imposin' on anyone. Don't think shit like that, alright? Everyone's glad you're here. Everyone's happy you're okay.”

“Okay.”

“You eaten lunch yet?” Mickey gets to his feet when Ian shakes his head and Ian follows him through to the kitchen. He watches as Mickey goes through the cupboards with ease, seemingly knowing where everything is. He feels briefly annoyed that even Mickey knows his way around the house when Ian doesn't, but he's too tired to hold onto the feeling. “Is there anything to eat in this joint?”

“There's mac n cheese up to the right,” Lip says, trailing down the stairs. His eyes are bloodshot. He looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” Mickey says. Ian tries to disguise his huff of laughter by clearing his throat. “Rough night?”

“Yeah, somethin' like that.” Lip grabs a beer from the fridge and Ian watches him silently. When he passes, the scent of body odour and alcohol lingers in his wake. Ian automatically shuffles closer to Mickey, but Lip doesn't stay, disappearing upstairs again.

“What's up with him?” Mickey asks. Ian shrugs.

“Dunno. He always an asshole?”

“Yeah.” Mickey laughs. “Pretty much.”

Mickey makes him lunch. Mickey finds the pill bottles Fiona's left on the counter and lines Ian's dose up for him. Mickey eats across from him, entertains him with stories Ian has told him about his youth; how he broke his collarbone when he was twelve and pretended he'd fought off muggers, but really he'd just fallen from a tree when the branch he was climbing snapped, how he could sing the alphabet song backwards and this was one of his favourite achievements, how he counted the scars on his knees and elbows and liked to always have more than Lip, 'cause it meant he was a better adventurer.

“What about these scars?” Ian holds up his hands, showing Mickey the patches of pink scar tissue on his palms. He's wondered about them before, found his fingers trailing over the smooth scar tissue, but never thought to ask. Always had more pressing questions.

“Uh.” Mickey's gaze flicks from Ian's palms to his eyes. “Accident with the grill when you were workin' at the diner.”

“Oh.” That's less exciting than he thought. “Must have been a bad accident.”

Mickey shrugs. Ian feels like he's missing something. Then again, he's missing everything, so that feeling is hardly out of place. He sighs and goes back to eating. All he has is the word of other people. He has to trust that. For now.

*

Ian can't sleep. It is late and his pain meds have faded. His body aches. The pain isn't the only thing that has stirred; his thoughts have, too. Whirring like a noisy washing machine. He keeps getting gut wrenching flashes of fear that his memory won't come back. That he will just continue to exist in this memoryless limbo; with no past, no sense of self, no real identity.

He pulls out his phone and flicks through the messages. He's gotten a lot of well wishes. He tries to connect the names to the faces of people that visited him in the hospital. He thinks most of them are people that he worked with. Then there's Trevor at the top, the only person Ian's actually replied to, the only person he feels comfortable holding a conversation with.

Well, the only person that's texted him.

He wants to talk to Mickey. He wants to ask more stupid questions. He wants to learn more about himself. He knows it's late, knows Mickey probably won't even be awake, but he goes into his contacts anyway. The only contact details he can find are saved under 'Mick'. He clicks into it and the contact photo confirms it's Mickey. Ian enlarges it, looking at a younger boy with Mickey he recognises from the family photos, knows is him. Both he and Mickey are pulling silly faces. They look happy. Ian smiles, and opens the text window.

_Hey Mickey. It's Ian._

He sets his phone aside, not really expecting a response, but it vibrates in less than a minute.

**hey didnt kno u still had my no**

Ian smiles automatically, lifting his phone and settling back against the pillows.

_Found it in my contacts._

**wats up?**

_Can't sleep._

_Hey what's my favourite colour?_

**I dno, u nvr said**

_I think it might be blue. I just wanted to know if it was the same as before._

**sry**

_It's cool._

_Hey what's your favourite colour?_

**red**

_Okay cool. Tell me more about me?_

**like wht?**

_Anything. I don't care. Whatever comes to mind._

**u like 2 run. u gt up far 2 early 4 it. u wnted 2 b in the army 4 god knos wht reason. u burn lik a motherfckr bt u nvr fckin wear sunscreen. u make th best pancakes. ur th big spoon nd u give off heat lik th sun. u prefr dogs 2 cats nd u lik bad reality tv nd u make rly bad puns nd u laugh at ur own jokes evn if no1 else does.**

_You don't laugh at my jokes?_

**nt th rly bad 1s**

_Thanks Mickey._

_I'm gonna try and get some sleep. Talk to you later?_

**sure**

**night ian**

_Night_

*

“You're looking better.”

Ian pulls a face. Trevor laughs. Ian smiles.

“I don't feel much better.”

“No?”

“Nah. And everyone's just sort of... Getting on with things. Acting normal.”

“As opposed to?” Trevor raises an eyebrow. Ian shrugs.

“I still feel out of place. I don't know what to do with myself. I've taken to scrolling through my Facebook friend list just so I can use it as practice putting names to faces.”

“That's... Quite clever, actually.”

“Thanks. I'm lucky my phone remembers all the passwords, 'cause I've no idea.”

“Remembering _any_ thing?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, man, you'll get there.” Trevor gives his knee a squeeze. Ian sighs and looks at the floor.

“What if I don't?”

“Well, then, you just get to make new memories.”

*

“No, clap this hand.”

“Oh, okay, sorry.” Ian readjusts his hands and lets Liam slap their palms together, showing him the correct pattern of his clapping game. He smiles, even though he's so tired that even that feels like quite an effort. He's always tired lately. In the kitchen, he can hear Fiona and Debbie arguing over who is going to stay with him today. They haven't seen Lip since yesterday.

“Mornin'.” Mickey's voice comes through from the kitchen, and again Ian marvels at how comfortable he is in this house, enough to use the back door without knocking, when he himself feels so out of place. “What's happenin'?”

“Icky!” Liam abandons Ian to run off to the kitchen. “Hey Icky.”

“Hey buddy. Look at you all fancy as fuck. Where they sendin' you off to?”

“Frank got him into some posh school,” Debbie explains.

Ian moves towards the kitchen, because he feels weird just eavesdropping from the living room now that he doesn't have the excuse of watching Liam. He leans against the door frame, nodding a greeting to Mickey, who smiles at him in return.

“I can walk Liam on my way to the bus, but I can't stay. I've got a DCS visit today. I don't know how long it will take.”

“I need to make an appearance at the diner-”

“I can stay by myself,” Ian says. It's a point he's been trying to make for the past few days. He gets it; he's injured, he's brain damaged, but he's otherwise functioning. Fiona gives him the same sympathetic smile she gives him every time they have this conversation.

“I just don't wanna leave you on your own while you're still hurt.”

“Bullshit.” Ian rolls his eyes and pushes off the door frame. He ignores the aching protest of his ribs. “You don't trust me on my own.”

“It's not that-”

“I can stay.”

All eyes turn to Mickey, who shifts and looks a little defensive at suddenly being the centre of attention.

“I don't need a babysitter,” Ian insists.

“Yeah, man, I know, but I ain't doin' shit. I could hang out here, keep you company. I, uh. Can even pick up the little guy from school if you're gonna be at work.”

“That would be a huge help, Mickey, but no one expects you to give up your time,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, I know.” Mickey shrugs again. “Ain't no one askin'. I'm offerin'.”

“Well, now that we've got that sorted, I've gotta go.” Debbie turns Franny's stroller and heads through the living room. “Come on, Liam.”

“Bye Icky!” Liam stops to hug Ian's leg before he goes. “Bye Ian!”

Both Ian and Mickey smile and wave after him. Once he and Debbie have left, Fiona puts her hands on Mickey's arms and squeezes gently, smiling warmly at him. Mickey's eyes flick from her, to Ian, and back again. He looks a touch embarrassed.

“Thanks, Mickey. I really appreciate this. Call me if you need anything, alright?”

“We won't,” Mickey assures her.

Ian turns and trails back to the living room. Despite Fiona's words, it still feels like he's been given a babysitter, like he's not trusted to stay on his own. At least with Mickey, things aren't quite as awkward as with his family. It's kind of funny. He expects things to be most awkward with his ex, and yet he and Mickey seem to have settled easily into a friendship. Perhaps it's the fact that with his stream of questions they never run out of things to talk about.

He has no questions today, though. He doesn't have the energy. He's tired and even the thought of making conversation makes him feel more drained, so he sits quietly while Mickey bustles around, cleaning up what's left of the breakfast dishes. He joins Ian after a while, but doesn't disturb his quiet, just watches TV with him.

“You okay?” he eventually asks.

“Just tired.”

Mickey doesn't push the issue, but Ian catches his concerned expression from the corner of his eye.

“Sorry you got stuck watchin' me.”

“Don't be, man. No place I'd rather be.”

“Right,” Ian says, disbelieving.

He feels fragile. Not just the way he is treated, but his actual existence. He feels like there's spiderweb cracks all over him and if he applies too much pressure he will shatter into pieces. He feels like a snow globe; shake him up and he can put on a show, can act out conversations, can pretend he's functioning, but the truth is, he's a hollow thing; cold and empty inside, no real purpose. He's a decoration of a person, filling in for the Ian he no longer is, trying to act out his part but he's forgotten all the lines.

“I want to be me again.”

“You're still you, Ian.”

Ian doesn't believe that either.

 


	4. Forgive Us Our Trespasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at my partner's house atm and it was her brother's wedding today, but I drafted this chapter so I could still post it on time for you. You're welcome.

Mickey doesn't know how the fuck he ended up acting out the part of Ian's caretaker again, but he falls into the pattern too easily. He's over at the Gallagher's after breakfast each morning; either meeting Fiona as she's heading out the door, or arriving just as they finish breakfast. More often than not, it's just him and Ian in the house until Liam gets out of school.

It is both a blessing and a curse. Ian doesn't come with any spite or old grudges held against him, doesn't look at Mickey with the same resentful pity as the last time he saw him, separated by the dirty and scratched panel of glass between them. He doesn't look at him with any of the heat or affection of before, either. Doesn't look at him with much of anything; just an acquaintance, just the neighbour who shows up to make sure he eats and swallows his pills.

“Should I still be taking this many?”

“I'm just followin' what it says on the label, man.”

“Okay.”

He's never seen Ian take his meds with such quiet acceptance before.

“Don't you usually take that many?”

“Yeah, just. Been a while. Thought my pain meds would reduce.”

“Right.”

Mickey doesn't push the topic any further, but the next morning he arrives early. He says his hellos, then nods for Fiona to follow him into the living room, leaving Liam and Ian eating cereal at the kitchen table.

“What's up?” Fiona says.

“Hey, did you guys tell Ian about his, ah, bipolar thing?”

“Uh. Not yet.”

“I didn't think so.”

“Why?”

“Just, he asked me about all the pills he's gotta take. Thinks they're pain meds. Wonders why he's takin' so many.”

“It's just with the accident, he was off his meds while he was in hospital, and you know how he got about takin' them the first time. I thought if we just wait until he gets through the adjustment period, he won't reject them the same way.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“He been acting strange or anything?”

“Nah. Fuckin' zombie. Stares at the TV or naps on the couch most of the time, but that's how it was before, right?”

“Yeah.” Fiona puts her hand on Mickey's arm and gives it a brief squeeze. “I'm sorry to dump all this on you, Mickey. You know you don't gotta come every day; if you're busy, or... I'm sure we can sort something.”

“It's alright. I ain't doin' shit, and I'd rather be with him than him being left on his own.”

“You think he might hurt himself?”

“I dunno. Did last time, didn't he?”

“Yeah. I'm worried about him wanderin' off. Gettin' lost or somethin'.”

“Shit, yeah. Didn't think about that.”

“He's forgotten the streets, everything. I know he remembers how to do most things; cook, clean, look after himself. I mean, he can function like an adult, but he's also kinda like a kid.” Fiona rubs a hand over her face, and for the first time Mickey notices how stressed she looks. Her hair is tied back, but there's strands of it sticking loose, and her eyes are underlined with dark shadows. “Once his ribs heal up, I can't keep him locked in here.”

“We'll deal with that when it comes, yeah? Fuckin'- Take him on a few walks, show him the area. Ian's quick. It won't take him long to learn again.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”

“Fiona, I gonna be late,” Liam says, appearing around the corner with his backpack on.

“Well we better get goin' then. You all ready?”

“Yeah.”

“You brush your teeth?”

“He did.” Ian steps through after Liam, resting his hands on his shoulders. “For a whole minute.”

“Right then, let's gooo.” Fiona holds her hand out for Liam, who rushes to take it. He waves goodbye over his shoulder to Ian and Mickey.

“So,” Ian says, once they're gone. “What were you two whisperin' about?”

“Nothin'.”

“Right.” Ian stares at him in a way that suggests he doesn't buy that for a second. “Gets real old when people are always whisperin' in the next room. Just sayin'.”

He leaves Mickey alone in the living room, turning and heading upstairs. Mickey pushes a hand through his hair with a sigh. Not that he wants to keep fuckin' secrets from Ian, but there ain't much he can say. He distracts himself with doing the breakfast dishes, and he never thought while he was in prison that he'd be here. Just being in this house again had seemed unattainable, never mind being a part of it again. He cherishes it, even stumbling clumsy and awkward through his encounters with Ian.

Ian doesn't show his face again, and Mickey has to haul ass upstairs to check on him around lunch time. He finds him sleeping. Ian insists he's not hungry when Mickey tries to stir him. Mickey brings him soup anyway, makes him take his tablets and watches until he eats it.

“I don't need a babysitter,” Ian insists. His favourite line.

“Don't I fuckin' know it, but you still gotta eat. Take those pills on an empty stomach, you're gonna be feelin' real sick in half an hour.”

Ian sighs, but finishes the bowl.

“You comin' down again?”

“Tired,” is all Ian says, so Mickey leaves him to go back to sleep. What he really wants to do is crawl into bed beside him. Hold him close. Pepper kisses along his temple. Breathe in the scent of him. Just keep him close and keep him fuckin' safe. Try and make up for all the times he wasn't here to do that. But they don't exist like that any more, and he's lucky he's been allowed back into Ian's life at all. He repeats that to himself like a mantra. It doesn't do much to stop the ache in his chest.

*

Mickey leaves Ian still asleep and Liam colouring at the kitchen table when Fiona arrives home. He heads for the Alibi. The flurries of snow have stopped, and while it still lies thick on the grassy areas, sidewalks and roads are turning into a mess of brown slush. Ugly, but a hell of a lot easier to navigate in. He knocks slush off his boots when he steps into the bar, making his way to his old stool.

“Heard you found yourself a new misfit family,” Mickey says, raising his brows at Svetlana. She regards him cooly, pulling a pint for Kermit and sliding it across the bar before she moves to stand in front of Mickey.

“No good jailbird husband does little to support me.”

“Ah, see, heard I'm not your husband any more either. That's funny. I don't remember signing any divorce papers.” Mickey raises a brow. Svetlana scowls. Nods for Mickey to follow her to the store room. He does so, arms folded defensively across his chest.

“What do you want?” she asks, voice cold.

“I want my share of the money.”

“What money?”

“What fuckin' money do you think? The prison hit money. You think I was in there stabbin' people for fun? We said we were splittin' it. I need my half.”

“You were meant to stay away for years.”

“Yeah, well, shit happens.”

“I use money for your son, since you give nothing. How you think I feed him, clothe him?”

“Spare me the fuckin' sob story, I'm gonna guess you've got a hand in your new wife's pocket. Probably one in Kev's, too, but honestly? I don't give a fuck. I want my share.”

“Tough. Money is gone.”

“I want my share, or I'm tellin' V your marriage is a scam.”

“You do that-”

“You'll what? I ain't got shit to lose any more. There's nothin' you can hold over me.”

“You can't see Yevgeny.”

“You think I give a flyin' fuck about the kid? I never wanted shit to do with him in the first place. Fuck, we ain't even sure he's mine. I ain't got _shit_ , but you have everything. This job, your family, your kid. What'd'ya think immigrations gonna do with him when I tell them all your lies, huh?”

“I get you half.”

“No. You'll get me all. You have until Friday.” Mickey stares her down, eyes cold, before he storms past and exits the bar.

He pulls out a cigarette and lights up. The smoke drifts up in grey curls. Mickey watches it, ignoring the cold biting at his fingers. With being at the Gallagher's day in and day out, he hasn't had time to start making money. He's relying on his share from the prison hits Svetlana arranged, or he's going to have to generate an income quick. Unideal, really, given he's only just got out. He wants to lie low for a bit before he gets back in the game.

Mickey sighs and starts for home, feeling tired and hollow. At least when he had Ian, there was a reason to slog through the shit, something that made the day to day struggle worth it. What does he have now? Shit all. Mandy's gone. Ian doesn't remember him. The family that he had created for himself, had risked everything for, torn to tatters. All because of one psycho bitch's ability to cheat death.

He steps into the Milkovich house. It is grey, quiet, and cold. His breath fogs the air in front of him. He hasn't the money to pay bills, and it seems no one else fuckin' bothers to. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. His steps are heavy as he moves to the kitchen. He cracks open a beer and drinks it in long gulps. Tossing the can towards the trash can, Mickey curses when it bounces off the rim, but doesn't bother to lift it. He opens another beer and takes this one with him to his bedroom; back in his old, shitty room, attached to the toilet. Colin had claimed the bigger room once he was taken in.

Mickey sits heavily on the bed. He keeps his puffy coat on, unwilling to risk the cold just yet. He stares blankly at the battered, stained couch across from him. Remembers the first time Ian had come here. Fuckin' fluffy headed baked bean boy, lookin' like he could do about as much damage as a puppy, his hand shaking as he held the tyre iron out. He had balls, though, comin' after Mickey like that. He smiles faintly at the memory, then thinks about how Ian doesn't remember that any more, and the smile fades.

Much as he tries to fight them, the tears come, hot and insistent. Mickey lets them. Ignores them. He sips his beer in silence, his breathing shaky, his cheeks damp with tears.

*

He wakes early. The silence is jarring to him, and it takes a moment for him to catch his bearings. He is so used to the constant noise of prison. The screaming, the crying, the cursing, the fighting. Of people banging against the bars, or banging their heads against the walls, or shouting across the corridors at each other; threats or general conversation. All a loud, crashing buzz of chaos that had become background noise to him. The silence feels too empty now. Only makes him aware of how alone he is.

He drags himself out of bed. Some mornings he asks himself why he fuckin' bothers. Some mornings, he can understand why Ian would want to curl up beneath the warmth and dark of the blankets and stay there. He groans as he shuffles heavy footed to the bathroom. He takes a long piss, rinses his mouth out with vodka, and considers having a shower. Just sticking a hand under the freezing water is enough to put him off. Fiona probably won't mind if he uses their water. Better than freezing to death.

He steps out into a dry morning, with the wind fierce and biting. Mickey ties his scarf a little firmer and heads for the Gallagher house. His nose and cheeks are pink with the cold by the time he reaches it, and he lets himself in the front. He knocks slush off his boots and passes through to the living room, pulling off his hat. Fiona and Lip are talking loudly in the kitchen and don't seem to notice his arrival.

“I'm just sayin', he's his ex, Fiona. Ain't like they ended on good terms.”

“Mickey has been nothin' but a help since Ian got back-”

“But for what reason, huh? You ever think about that? Pretty convenient he gets to walk back in here and Ian forgets all the shit he did.”

“Mickey did everything he could for Ian when he was sick.”

“You don't know half of what happened between them.”

“No,” Mickey says, stepping forward. “None of you know half of what fuckin' happened between me and Ian.”

“Mickey.” Fiona looks up, expression torn between guilt and apology.

“You think I'd do anything to fuckin' hurt him? You think I'm here to take advantage of him? I loved- I _love_ him.”

“Exactly. So you'll, eh, take any chance you can to be near him, right?” Lip staggers closer to Mickey, getting in his face. His breath stinks of alcohol. Mickey's eyebrows raise, eyes widening in challenge.

“The fuck you tryna say, _Phillip_?”

“I don't want you takin' advantage of my brother.”

“Lip, that's enough,” Fiona says, stepping forward to take his shoulder. Lip shrugs her off.

Mickey's hands have curled into fists by his side, and it takes everything he has not to rearrange Lip's fuckin' smug face for him. He's weighing up the pros and cons of it (Pro: satisfying as fuck, totally askin' for it, somethin' he's wanted to do for a while. Con: might be asked to leave) when Ian appears at the foot of the stairs.

“Mickey's not takin' advantage of me. While I still don't _need_ anyone to stay with me, all he does is cook and clean.” Ian shrugs. He bumps Lip with his shoulder as he passes. “So just fuckin' drop it and stop yellin' this early in the mornin'.”

“Fuck you,” Lip says. He glares Ian, then looks back at Fiona. “Fuck all of you.”

“Where are you going?” Fiona reaches for him, but Lip's already staggering off towards the front door. He slams it behind him. Fiona runs a hand through her hair, sighing. “Sorry about that, Mickey.”

“Whatever. Hey, it cool if I grab a quick shower here?”

“'Course.”

“Thanks. My dumbass brothers ain't paid any of our bills. We ain't got water.”

“No heating, either?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck. Are you not freezin' over there?”

“Nothin' I ain't used to,” Mickey says with a shrug. Fiona bites her lip.

“You can always stay here, y'know. We've got a few empty beds nowadays.”

Mickey is taken aback by the offer. It's true that he'd always felt quite accepted here, a contrast to his own home. No one questioned his presence. No one acted like he was in the way. He'd always assumed that was part of being with Ian, though. He was Ian's boyfriend, so he was welcome in the house. Now he's... Barely anything, really, to any of them. He doesn't understand why Fiona's opening their home to him now.

“I, uh, don't wanna impose any more than I already am,” Mickey mumbles, swiping his thumb across his lower lip.

“Ain't imposin'. You rode through some tough times with us, Mickey. You're always welcome.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says, not sure how else to respond. His throat feels hot and tight.

“You know where the towels are,” is all Fiona says.

The hot water feels good against his skin. He tips his head up into the flow of it, scrunches his eyes closed and lets it pour down over him. Don't matter how much he turns the heat up, he can't burn Lip's words out of his head, can't help but wonder if maybe he is takin' advantage. Not purposefully; but he is here because he wants to see Ian, spend time with him while he can. He'd be lying if there wasn't some hopeful flicker buried deep within him that maybe they can fix themselves like they always do, come back together, like they're supposed to. Like they're meant to. Why else would it feel so right?

Mickey rubs his hair dry hard enough to make his scalp ache. He wants to hit something, someone. He'd really quite like to hit Lip, for starting this in the first place. He dresses and comes down to find Ian has put on his fleece again. Something about the sight of him sitting so casually in Mickey's clothing almost knocks the air out of his fuckin' lungs. He swallows, comes across to the table. Fiona and Liam are already gone.

“You take your pills?”

“Fiona already gave them to me.”

“Good.”

There's a lull of silence. Mickey raps his knuckles against the tabletop, feeling a fresh tension between them. He wonders how much of their conversation Ian overheard. Hopes he didn't hear his confession. Not that he's embarrassed (he's fuckin' over his days of being embarrassed about who he loves), but he knows Ian still don't really know him. He'd be pretty freaked if some stranger came around firing off love declarations.

“It's okay,” Ian says eventually, looking up from his toast.

“What?”

“I don't think you're here to take advantage of me or... Whatever.”

“Right.”

“I get that you care about me. That you all do. It's just hard for me to feel that back when I still don't feel like I know you. You've all got years on me.”

“Yeah, man, I know.”

“Doesn't mean I won't get there, though.” Ian looks at his hands. He sighs, tired. “I'm sick of feelin' nothin'.”

Mickey knows that's more to do with the meds than Ian's head injury, but he says nothing, just nods in acknowledgement. Ian nods back, absently mirroring, but offers no further conversation. Mickey takes his plate when he's done and cleans to distract himself. Ian stays at the kitchen table, looking tired and spacey. He only stirs when Mickey asks if he's got any laundry for him to do, disappearing upstairs to fetch clothes.

*

Mickey finishes cleaning up after lunch and steps into the living room. Ian is curled in the armchair, head resting against the back of it, eyes shut. He is still and peaceful, and so beautiful it makes Mickey's chest ache. He stands in the doorway and just watches him for a moment. Ian's hair is growing out again; the little stray strands falling forward to his forehead like they used to. The bruising on his face is almost fully healed, just the lightest hint of yellow-green left around his eye socket. His lashes flicker and his brow furrows. Mickey turns his head away before he can be caught staring.

The door knocks and Mickey goes still, eyes flicking towards it. They never have visitors. The Gallaghers come and go without knocking.

“You gonna get that?” Ian mumbles without opening his eyes.

Mickey doesn't bother to answer. He considers taking the baseball bat down, but it's not like he can't do significant damage with his hands if needs be. He strides across the living room and steps into the hall, pulling open the front door. Trevor stands on the porch, two paper coffee cups in a cardboard holder. Mickey's eyebrows rise towards his hairline.

“Can I fuckin' help you?”

“I'm here to see Ian.” Trevor eyes Mickey like he's something volatile and dangerous. Kid's smarter than he fuckin' looks.

“Is that Trevor?” Ian's voice comes from the living room. Mickey bites back a sigh. Not like he can kick him out on his ass now.

“Whatever.” He steps away from the door and Trevor comes through, closing it behind him.

“Hey you,” he says, smiling at Ian. Ian's head pops up over the chair and he manages a tired smile back. Mickey scowls and stomps through to the kitchen. Once there, he's at a loss for anything to do, so he ends up on the back porch. He lights up, folding an arm across his ribs against the cold as he takes a long drag. He exhales in an aggressive sigh. He doesn't stay out for a second smoke, the biting cold driving him back inside.

“-sure that's a good idea?”

“Why not? He seems pretty close with my family,” Ian says. Mickey goes still. He clicks the door closed as quietly as he can and finds himself eavesdropping for the second time today.

“I know you don't know anything about him, but you told me some things. Your relationship... Didn't sound great.”

“Yeah, but no one sings the praises of their ex, do they?”

“Just sounds like he put your through a lot of shit before he came out, and even then, things were rocky.”

“Jesus, is everyone in this house gonna fuckin' talk shit about me behind my back?” Mickey is scowling as he steps into the doorway of the living room. He leans against the frame, arms folded defensively across his chest.

“I just think Ian should be aware of your past, that's all.”

“Right. Look. I was young when we first hooked up. I made a lot of mistakes. But we got through that; me and him. I don't care what he told you before, no one knows everythin' that went down between us. Fuckin' no one.”

“Then why don't you tell us?”

“Because that's between us.”

“Riiight.” Trevor rolls his eyes, and Mickey flares with irritation. The thing is, he gets it. He does. If it were the other way around, if Kash or Ned or any of those fuckin' geriatric queens from the club were tryna weasel their way back into Ian's life in his ignorance, Mickey would be suspicious and defensive, too. He would be automatically protective. He gets it, but it doesn't make Trevor any less fuckin' annoying.

“You want me to go?” Mickey turns to face Ian, eyebrows raised. “You just say the word. I'll fuckin' vanish. Don't want you to think I'm trailing after you like a bitch, hoping something's gonna happen. That's not what this is about.”

“I didn't think it was,” Ian says, calm in the face of Mickey's temper.

“You're fuckin' family, and I wanna look out for you, but since everyone seems convinced I'm just some fuckin' vulture-”

“I don't think you're a vulture, Mickey.” Ian's voice is still calm, but he sounds tired. “Look, I don't remember what happened between us. That's true. But I don't remember that with everyone. I have to base everything on my present; on the way people act around me and treat me now. I don't care what Mickey did, and I can't know what I did, either; but goin' by how things have been since I got out, we're fine. So can you just drop it, Trev?”

Mickey raises his chin and looks at Trevor with defiant smugness. His insides are warmed by Ian's words, though. The confirmation that he's getting a second chance, that he's not being judged by his previous sins. It's more than he would ever have asked for. If dealing with Trevor's presence is a part of that, well, that's not such a price to pay.

 

 


	5. Stranger in a Strange Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I had pre-written. Ideally I'll be able to keep up producing one weekly, but unfortunately my life is not ideal. I've been so drained I haven't written anything in over a week, so this may shift to fortnightly, but I'll try my best to stick to the weekly updates.

Ian wakes up heavy limbed and tired. It seems that no matter how much he sleeps, he always feels drained now. His wounds are healing; his face no longer bears signs of the accident, and while he still gets a twinge through his ribs, he is much more mobile than when he first arrived at the house. He thinks as his body gets better he should be feeling better, but he just seems to feel worse. He reluctantly drags himself out of bed and stumbles down the hall, meeting Mickey as he comes out of the bathroom.

“Mornin',” he says. His eyes do a quick, automatic flick over Ian, assessing him. He's always looking at him like he's worried. If Ian had more energy, he might ask about it, but that seems like a conversation that could be quite draining, so he leaves it. He nods in response to Mickey, who steps around him and heads back to his room. Ian feels like he's been under full time surveillance since Mickey moved into Debbie's old room, but at least he is subtle about it, not always asking questions the way Fiona does.

When he comes down for breakfast, Mickey is making eggs. Ian's meds are laid out in a neat row by his plate. He doesn't understand why he still has to take so many. He waits until Mickey joins him at the table to ask.

“Just followin' what it says on the bottle,” he says, as usual. So he asks Fiona, who is eating toast in the kitchen.

“Doctor says you've gotta take them,” she says.

“Why?” Ian asks again. “My injuries are mostly gone. I don't really need pain meds any more.”

“Ian-”

“No. Don't tell me that the doctor says, or that it's what it says on the bottle, or anything else. If I'm being fed chemicals on a daily basis I deserve to know what they're for. It's my body, I should know what I'm putting into it, but you don't even let me see the bottle.” It takes quite a bit of energy to drive the sentence out with determined force, and he feels sapped afterwards. Fiona looks just as tired. Her shoulders droop. She comes across to the table, sits beside him and takes his hand.

“Okay,” she says. Her voice is soft, maternal. She gives Ian's hand a squeeze. “I didn't want to tell you until you'd settled, and I hoped you would maybe start to remember some things by now, but...”

Fiona looks at Mickey. He gives her a brief nod. She takes a deep inhale and looks back to Ian.

“Ian, you're bipolar.”

“What?”

“That's what the meds are for,” Mickey explains. “You gotta take them to keep your mood stable.”

“I'm mentally ill?”

“Yeah,” Fiona says. “But you're managing it great. When you're on your meds, it doesn't stop you doin' anything. You still work, you still have your life.”

“But when you're off them, sometimes you do things,” Mickey adds. “Like, run away, or hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?”

Fiona and Mickey nod. Ian sits back in his chair and tries to process that. He's never felt the urge to hurt himself before, but there's the hollowness inside him, the feeling that he maybe wouldn't mind not existing for a while. He thought that was a side effect of the amnesia; that he felt as empty as his head was, but could it be part of the depression that comes with his condition? He rubs at his eye. Feels the information lie on him, heavy as an iron blanket.

“Fuck,” he says eventually.

“You're okay,” Fiona assures him, rubbing his arm. “You were off your meds in the hospital, so your body is going through the adjustment period now. Once they balance out, you'll feel normal again.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you did before.”

“No, but how can you know how I felt? How can you know if I'll ever feel “normal”? You said they balance my moods, but that doesn't mean I'll just feel normal. It doesn't mean there's no side effects. Shit, why didn't you tell me about this sooner?”

“Hey, man, with everything that happened, you already had a lot of shit to process. Fiona didn't want to put too much on you at once.”

“And you. I asked you about those meds loads of times and you never told me.”

“I asked Mickey not to.”

“So you were conspiring against me?”

“No, Ian, no one is conspiring. We're just tryna look out for you, okay?” Fiona rubs his arm again, but Ian pulls it out of her grasp. He feels the fragile trust he was starting to build up with both of them waver. He understands, to an extent. He does, but it doesn't help the feeling of betrayal, that information about himself is being withheld from him. It's not fair. He fuckin' deserves to know. It's his body, his brain, his history, and his disease. He deserves to know about himself.

“I'm tired,” he says, standing.

“You haven't taken your meds,” Mickey says.

“I don't want to.”

“You have to, or you'll get sick again,” Fiona explains, voice calm. They're both looking at him with pleading, expectant eyes. Ian feels irritation prickle beneath his skin. He feels irrationally angry. He sighs, makes a show of lifting the meds and taking them all at once. He slams down the glass of water when he's done.

“Happy now?” Ian doesn't wait for a response. He turns and stomps up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. By then, he feels like he's drained his reserves of energy dry. He leans against the door, legs shaky, and sinks to the floor. He rests his head in his hands, fingers through his hair, tugging on it gently to let the pain ground him. Then he thinks about what Mickey said, about hurting himself, and presses his palms over his eyes instead.

Bipolar. He has no knowledge of it in regards to himself, but his brain seems to have retained information on the condition. Manic depression. Highs and lows. A rollercoaster ride of emotion, repeatedly. Manic phases of high energy, little sleep, restlessness, impulsive decisions. Lows of exhaustion, draining depression, emptiness. He's been in one of those the past few weeks, he realises. So obvious now that he knows, but he hadn't noticed.

“Fuck.” Ian exhales sharply. He feels his eyes sting with the threat of tears, but none come, like his body is too tired to even cry. He crawls across the floor and hauls himself into bed. He can't get the blanket over himself, just lies there, staring at the wall and feeling numb.

*

Ian manages to get himself under the blanket at one point, and drifts into a light sleep. He stirs when Mickey pushes his door open a few inches and then raps it gently with his knuckles.

“What's the point in knockin' when you've already opened the door?” Ian says. Mickey smiles at his grumbling and steps into the room.

“Just checkin' on you, grumbles. You doin' okay?”

“I'm sick of hearing that.”

“Different circumstance.”

“I'm fine.”

“It's a lot to take in.”

“Yeah, well, I've always been bipolar, I just didn't know before, so, whatever.”

“Takin' it better than the first time.”

“How'd I take it the first time?”

“With a heavy dose of denial.” Mickey laughs, sitting at the edge of Ian's mattress. Ian's wrapped up to his nose in the duvet, his hair poking out the top. He tilts his head up to free his mouth as well, frowning.

“Is that what you meant, when you said I was sick before?”

“Yeah.”

“And I wouldn't let you help?”

“Uh, yeah. You didn't wanna take your meds. Guess you resented that I kept pushin' them on you.”

“Like you're doin' now.”

“Ian.” Mickey frowns, but has no more words. Ian can hear the plea in his voice, and beneath it, the fear. Fear that he'll be pushed away again. That that resentment will come back. He feels the smallest twinge of guilt.

“It's fine. I get it. I'm annoyed you didn't just tell me to start with, though. It's fuckin' shit not knowin' about yourself, and then finding out that people are keepin' secrets about who you are.”

“Yeah.” Mickey says. “I'm sorry, man. Fiona asked me not to say. I thought she knew best.”

“Right. Because no one trusts me to know what's best for me any more.”

“Ian-”

“No. It's true. I'm sick of bein' treated like I'm a child, or, or.... A fuckin' invalid. I can do things. I need to be allowed to do things or I'm never gonna have a fuckin' life again, I'm just gonna stay stuck in this purgatory where I have no past and no conceivable future. I don't want that.”

“What do you want?” Mickey asks, his voice soft. His eyes are soft, too, lookin' at Ian like he'd do anything to settle the storm brewing inside of him. Ian feels a stir of power, a giddy rush of control at having someone look at him like that, of feeling that important to someone.

“I want out of this fuckin' house. I'm sick of feelin' like a caged dog. Can we just... Go for a walk or somethin'?”

“Well, Fiona said-”

“Fuck Fiona.”

Mickey laughs.

“Alright, tough guy. We can go for a walk. Then you can come pick Liam up with me, alright?” He smiles. Ian feels a flicker of a smile trying to make it onto his own face in return.

“Okay,” he says. Mickey pats his leg and stands.

“But you're eatin' lunch first, and takin' your meds. That fair?”

Ian nods his agreement. It still feels like a victory.

*

The snow has melted now, but it is still cold. It's the first time Ian's been any further than the back porch, and he feels the cold right down to his bones. He pulls his coat tighter around him and follows Mickey onto the street. Mickey lights up a cigarette. He takes a drag and offers it to Ian. Ian takes it. His dry lips stick to the ring of damp Mickey's left.

“Where are we goin'?” he asks.

“Where do you wanna go?”

“I dunno. I don't know anywhere.”

“Alright, well, how about I take you to some of our places. See if it stirs any memories?”

“Okay.”

The first place Mickey takes them to is a run down little house beside the train tracks. The garden is full of rubbish, the steps up to it look half rotted, paint on the house is peeling or fallen away in patches. Ian looks at it with a frown. It's not like any of the houses on the street look in particularly good condition, but this is one of the worst. Mickey walks up the path. Ian follows, hesitant.

“Whose house is this?”

“Mine,” Mickey says. Ian blinks, surprised. “Well, technically my dad's, I guess, but he's in the joint more often than not, so it's mostly just me and my brothers.”

The door is unlocked. Mickey pushes it open and steps in. Ian follows. It's almost as cold inside the house as it is outside. He can see, now, why Mickey would rather stay at their house. He trails after Mickey as he leads the way through the living room. Ian's gaze rakes over the old, battered sofa; a throw tossed over it to try and cover the worst parts. His eyes flick across to the kitchen, where dirty dishes are piling in the sink, and food containers spill over the bin.

“Fuckin' Iggy and Colin don't clean shit,” Mickey says, following his gaze. “Ehh. So. You lived here for a handful of months.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. We used to be in here.” Mickey opens the door to a room with a double bed. The bed is unmade, the sheets a mess, and a heavy musk hangs in the air. “But Colin moved himself in while I was in jail, so I'm back in the box room.”

Mickey crosses to the other side of the house and leads Ian into a smaller room. Between the single bed and a second battered couch, there's not a lot of floor space. Mickey looks at Ian, as if watching for any kind of recognition. He rubs his thumb along his lower lip. Ian looks around the room, then back to Mickey. It's just a stranger's room to him.

“This is, uh, where we first hooked up,” Mickey says, averting his eyes.

“Hooked up?”

“Fucked.”

“Right. Hey, how did that happen to start with?”

“Uhh. Right, well, your boss who you were fuckin' at the time, pulled a gun on me. So 'course I took the fuckin' thing, 'cause I was a cocky little shit, and also, y'know, no one likes havin' a fuckin' gun pulled on them, right? An' I hit him for good measure. You, being sixteen and all nobly defensive of his pride, came stormin' over demandin' the gun back, wavin' a tyre iron in my face. We had a bit of a scuffle, all that rubbin' together, y'know...” Mickey smiles, looking away, a touch sheepish. Ian can see the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Horny teenagers we were, got us worked up. Just kinda... Happened.”

“I was fuckin' my boss?” Ian blinks.

“Yeah.”

“What age was he?”

“Towelhead? I dunno. Like mid thirties or somethin'. Old enough to be married with two kids.”

Ian feels behind him for the couch and drops heavily onto it. Sleeping with the older man he worked with was one thing, but someone who was married, that was even worse.

“So... I had an affair with a married man?”

“Several,” Mickey says, then seems to regret it when he sees Ian's face. “Hey, look, they were the ones that were fuckin' married. They were the ones takin' advantage of a fuckin' kid. You weren't in the wrong, okay?”

“I still did it. I should have known it was wrong.”

“Look, ain't no clear right or wrong around here. People do all kinds of shit to survive, or make their existence a little less miserable.”

“Did sleeping with him do either of those?”

“I dunno. Ain't like we ever talked about it, but I fuckin' hated him.”

“Jealous?” Ian feels a flicker of a smile in spite of himself.

“Blind with it, and fuckin' grossed out, too. You deserved better than any of those creeps. Hell, you deserved better than me, too, but at least I was closer to your fuckin' age.”

“Right.” Ian bites his lip. “So, uh, when we... Y'know. Did I..?”

“You topped, man. With the fuckin' cock you're packin', you'd be wasted as a bottom.” Mickey pauses, pulls a face. “Sorry. Guess I shouldn't say that shit.”

“It's fine,” says Ian, who is mostly just amused. He still feels a sick curl in his stomach about the new information he's been presented, but he tucks that away to think about later. He looks at the bed. Tries to imagine his younger self here, Mickey bent over, the first topple in a domino effect. Did he know how things would turn out between them? Was he excited, nervous, happy? Had he crushed on Mickey beforehand? Questions he could no longer answer. He sighs, gets to his feet. Mickey senses that he's ready to go and leads the way back onto the street.

The next place Mickey takes Ian to is a dingy store, with a faded red sign that reads KASH AND GRAB. It looks like it's seen better days. There's an old man in dirty clothes sitting at the mouth of the alley beside it, drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag. As they approach, he belches loudly, then grins at them. He's missing several teeth.

“Any change, boys?”

“Go fuck yourself, Harold, we know you ain't homeless.”

“Fuck you, Milkovich. Shouldn't you be in jail?”

Mickey flips him off. Ian says nothing, stays close to Mickey as they step into the shop. There's a teenage girl behind the counter. She glances up at them, bored, and smacks her gum.

“This is where we used to work,” Mickey says. He takes Ian through the store and nods to a door with a window in it. Ian glances in to the back of the freezes. “We used to hook up in there.”

“While we were workin'?”

“Yeah, man. Took a break, locked the door, quick fuck. Best fuckin' perk of the job.”

“Is this where I fucked my boss, too?”

“Probably.” Mickey's expression goes dark, and his tone sours. Ian nods, resolves not to mention that again. They don't stay long in the shop. It's pretty small, not much to see, and Ian feels nothing in it. No nostalgia, no familiarity, just the same void that has been in his head since he woke up. An empty slate. “Anything?”

“No,” Ian says. Mickey nods and pats his shoulder consolingly.

They walk for a longer stretch of time, now. Ian keeps his hands tucked in his coat pocket and his scarf wrapped up to his chin. He watches the people that pass. Some stare, some nod hello. He stays close to Mickey like a child keeping close to their parent. He wanted out of the house, but now he feels anxious, lost in this strange world he has no memory of. If he was left here alone, would he even be able to get back home again? He hates that. Hates how hopeless he feels, how dependent on other people his injury has left him.

Eventually they come to a wire fence. Beyond it is a baseball court. Mickey touches the wire, his expression soft and, Ian thinks, a touch sad.

“We hook up here as well?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says with a smile.

“Is this just a tour of everywhere we've fucked?”

“Pretty much.”

“Right.”

“Hey, man, what can I say? We had a lot of sex.”

Ian huffs a laugh. Mickey's sad expression fades, a smile blossoming across his face at the sound. His eyes crinkle. In this light, they're bright blue, almost look like they're twinkling. His face looks younger when he smiles. He is, undeniably, quite cute, and Ian feels a little tingle run through him. Not memory, but the beginning of a feeling, a seed planted inside him.

He thinks he's getting a crush on Mickey. Shit.

Mickey tells him about getting kicked off his baseball team for pissing on first base as they continue their walk. Ian laughs at the image of a tiny Mickey, angry and defiant. Mickey's smile grows even wider, and it's contagious, Ian can't help but smile back at him. They walk side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing, and Ian feels that feeling stir inside him again, a giddy twist in his stomach.

“The high school bleachers,” Mickey says, leading him into the shadow area hidden beneath the bleachers. “Our spot, man.”

“Here, too?”

“Yeah.” Mickey grins. “Used to come meet you when you were in school. Usually on your lunch break, but sometimes you'd skip class and we'd get high as well.”

“What if someone had seen us?”

“No one ever did. Though I did find you fuckin' some fag from your ROTC bullshit down here once.”

“While we were together?”

“Eh, kinda.”

“I fucked other people when we were together?”

“Well, we weren't like, official, I guess. That was my fault. I, uh, I was a fuckin' closeted asshole. Too scared to admit I loved you. Too scared to be open about it.”

“Why?”

“'Cause my dad was a homophobic asshole. Beat me to a pulp when he found out.”

“Jesus, Mick.”

“It's fine. It's over now, I'm... Fine. Happier now, I don't gotta hide any more.”

“So I slept with married men and cheated,” Ian says. Mickey shrugs. “I don't sound like a very nice person.”

“Hey, shut up, okay? You were. You _are_. You're thoughtful, and kind, lot kinder than most fuckers around here. You're funny, and a sarcastic fuck, but in a witty way. You make awful puns but perfect pancakes. You're driven, and ambitious, and you're too good for this neighbourhood. You always were.” Mickey licks his lips when he's done, averting his eyes like he thinks he's said too much. “So, don't talk shit about yourself, okay? Those things don't fuckin' define you. You're more than that.”

“I think you're biased.”

“Hey. It was me you cheated on, so I'm not fuckin' biased. But I forgive you. We both have our shit. We both fucked up, repeatedly. We moved past it.”

“Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I, ah, hug you?”

Mickey blinks, momentarily surprised. He smiles; softer than before, just a small quirk of his lips.

“'Course you can.”

Ian steps forward and Mickey opens his arms. He goes under Mickey's arms, wrapping his around Mickey's torso, as Mickey drapes his around Ian's neck. He holds him close. He closes his eyes and presses his face against Mickey's hair, taking comfort from the closeness, from the fact that Mickey is starting to feel less like a stranger, less like an acquaintance. He finally feels like a friend. Ian breathes in, and the scent of Mickey is familiar, but he can't place it. It niggles in his brain, telling him there should be a memory association, but his library is blank, so he has nothing to place it with. He breathes deep again, enjoying the smell, regardless. Storing it away with this new memory; the firm feel of Mickey's muscular arms and how secure they feel around him, even through his puffy coat, his temple touching Ian's cheek, his breath tickling against his ear.

Eventually, reluctantly, he peels himself away.

“Thanks,” he says, a slight hoarse edge to his voice.

“No need to thank me.”

Mickey lights another cigarette and they share it as they go to collect Liam, cold fingers brushing as they pass it back and forth.

“This place looks fancy.”

“Yeah, fancy as hell.”

“How'd we afford to send Liam here?”

“Fiona said Frank got him a scholarship somehow.”

“Frank?”

“Your dad? Wait, you haven't seen him yet?”

Ian shakes his head.

“Don't worry about it, he'll come sniffin' around soon enough. Can't keep Frank away for long.”

“Ian outside!” Liam says, running towards Ian with his arms out. Ian lifts him and spins him round, gritting his teeth against the twinge of pain his ribs give in protest.

“Yeah, buddy, I'm outside. Thought I'd come walk you home today. What'dya think?”

“Good,” Liam says. He walks between Ian and Mickey, who hold a hand each, and swing him up in a wide arc whenever they step off the sidewalk. Liam squeals with laughter and demands they swing him again. Once they comply, Ian asks him about his day and he goes into an excited babble. Ian glances at Mickey over Liam's head and finds him looking at him with a smile. He smiles back.

*

Ian and Mickey sit in silence in the living room. Everyone else has gone to bed. They're watching some awful reality TV show that is cheesy and obviously scripted. Ian's eyes go in and out of focus. He's looking at the screen, but not really watching. Churning over everything Mickey told him today. For the first time, he starts to wonder if he even wants to remember who he was. He doesn't sound like a good person. He doesn't sound like someone he wants to be.

“Ey, you okay?” Mickey asks. Ian glares at him. “Oh, right, shit, not meant to ask that.”

Mickey holds his arms up in mock surrender. Ian punches his shoulder. He laughs as he rubs the spot.

“I'm just tired,” Ian says. “I'm always tired.”

“It's the fuckin' meds, man. First four to six weeks; tired and kinda stoned.”

“Yeah, like, hazy.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't like it.”

“I know. But it'll get better.”

“Maybe.”

Mickey bumps Ian's shoulder with his and smiles at him. Ian can't manage a smile back.

“Thanks for takin' me out today.”

“Sure. No sweat.”

“Yeah, but I appreciate it. I'm not a kid. I'm not gonna wander off and get lost. Felt good to get out and stretch my legs. Get some fresh air.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

“Can we do it again sometime?”

“Uh.” Mickey looks at him for barely a second before he smiles. “Course we can.”

“Cool.” Ian sinks down into the couch, pressing his shoulder against Mickey's. He doesn't move it away until they rise to head for bed.

*

Ian's drained the next day. Being trapped in the house, his body has been pretty idle, and though they didn't exactly run a marathon yesterday, he's aching and tired. He goes back to bed after his breakfast, and has a late lunch with Mickey. He's asked if he wants to go collect Liam, but he doesn't feel up to it. He goes to bed early after dinner and sleeps through the night, feeling refreshed the next morning.

“Can we go for another walk?” He asks Mickey after breakfast.

“Sure, just lemme finish the dishes.”

This time Mickey takes him to the outskirts, where buildings thin out into an area that looks mostly like waste land. The ground is covered in knee high grass and patches of weeds, littered with broken glass. It's surrounded by abandoned buildings, old and derelict. Ian's surprised when Mickey takes him into one, climbing the steps up through it to near the top. He can look out from where they came from, at the stretch of rooftops and grey sky. The room is cavernous; empty asides for rubble and rubbish. It reflects how he feels.

“What is this place?”

“One of my spots. Used to come here to get away for a while. Hide out. Practice shooting. You're the only person I ever shared it with. Not even Mandy knew about here.”

“We fuck here as well?”

“Yeah.”

“You really are givin' me the whole tour.”

“Hey, might as well do it right, man.”

Mickey grins at him, standing by his side by the gaping hole of a window, his cheeks pink from the exertion of the stairs. His eyes are crinkled again, eyebrows raised. Ian notices for the first time how soft and plush his lips look. Almost as soft as his eyes.

“Hey, Mick.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry I can't remember you.”

“Ain't your fault.”

“I know, but... You'd only just gotten out of prison when you came lookin' for me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, you were expectin' to find a different version of me.”

“Well, ideally, yeah, I'd prefer you hadn't got slammed by a car and suffered a fuckin' head trauma.”

“You must have been disappointed.”

“Ey, no. Ian. Look at me. I am never disappointed to see you, okay?”

“Were you gonna try to get back with me?”

Mickey goes still, tense. He averts his gaze and clears his throat. Ian knows the answer is yes.

“I, uh.” Mickey fumbles for words. His eyes come back to Ian, and there's that look again, that soft concern, that clear adoration. “Maybe. Dunno if you'd have wanted to, but... Thought a lot about you. In the joint.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Fuck can I do, man. You're under my skin.”

“I, uh, I'm not really in a place right now-”

“No. Course not. Look, maybe you'd have told me to go fuck myself anyway, I dunno, but I'm fuckin' privileged just to get to know you, Ian. In any capacity.”

“Right. Well, I am sorry. That I'm not him, and I don't remember.” He looks at Mickey's hand. Considers taking it, squeezing it, but feels like that would be unkind; to offer the contact Mickey is probably craving without the meaning behind it. Mickey is the one to make a move. He reaches up to cup Ian's cheek, before giving it a few light slaps.

“Don't be sorry for somethin' that ain't your fault.”

Ian nods, looks away, doesn't admit that he's secretly apologising for all his forgotten faults of the past.

 


End file.
